The Magic of Birthdays
by The Reviews Lounge
Summary: A series of oneshots about different characters, written for the latest Reviews Lounge project. Romance, humour, angst, drama, friendship and so much more.
1. George Weasley

**Sharing**

_(George)_

**by Bad Mum**

_April 1st 1980_

It is the first thing George remembers – really remembers, rather than having been told about it afterwards and thinking that he does. Their second birthday. Sitting next to Fred at the head of the table, perched on cushions because they are too small to reach the table without them. The family singing, _"Happy Birthday dear FredandGeorge, Happy birthday to you"_. (He was probably six before he realised that FredandGeorge wasn't actually one word.)

And then having a tantrum because their mother gives him and Fred slices of cake in separate bowls. They were supposed to share. Why two bowls? He is too young to explain of course, and his cake remains uneaten.

_April 1st 1989_

"Do you mind it?" Charlie asks curiously. "Sharing all the time?"

They are in the yard outside The Burrow. Fred is in the kitchen, having the gash on his forehead, from where he was hit by the new Bludger – the twins' birthday present – patched up. Bill took Fred in to their mother. Charlie kept George outside. The family know from experience that it is best to keep the twins apart when one of them is hurt, at least at first. The one who is okay always makes a lot more fuss than the injured party.

"What d'you mean?"

"You and Fred. You get joint birthday presents. You don't even get a birthday cake to yourself."

George shrugs, looking at the back door, willing Fred to come out and be alright and make a joke. He knows he will sooner or later. He was laughing even as Bill shepherded him into the house with his face covered in blood, but George can't help worrying.

"We're twins," he says flatly, as if that makes his answer obvious. "We always share. Anyway, you and Bill share things. You have joint birthday parties sometimes."

"It's different. We don't share presents. Or cakes. And he's older than me."

"I'm older than Fred."

Charlie rolls his eyes. "Nine minutes. Two years. Not the same thing."

"I'd mind sharing with Percy or Ron. I don't mind sharing with Fred." George is only eleven. It is the closest he can get to explaining that sharing with Fred is not like sharing at all, because Fred is the other half of himself.

_April 1st 1998_

Perhaps they should feel guilty at having a birthday party in the middle of a war, when their kid brother is off Godric-knows-where doing Godric-knows-what and their baby sister has to endure those _bastards _the Carrows at school. But feeling guilty is not the Weasley twins' style. Anyway, unless people continue to do normal things, to carry on _living_, You Know Who will have won already. If you think about it like that, it is their _duty_ to enjoy their birthday.

_"Happy birthday dear FredandGeorge, Happy birthday to you."_ The other customers in the Leaky Cauldron are not enjoying the noise they and their friends are making. Tom is glaring at them, and they take the hint and adjourn to the flat above the shop.

Oliver opens bottles of beer, and Katie puts on some music. Fred is laughing on the battered settee with Angelina on his lap. George is dancing with Alicia, Lee with Katie. Oliver is complaining, "Not fair. We're a girl short." Alicia takes pity on him, and abandons George, pulling Oliver out of the chair and draping herself round him as they dance. Not to be outdone, George grabs Angelina from Fred and starts to slow-dance with her. Fred glares at him for a minute, but then grins as he goes to kidnap Katie from Lee.

There will be time for words like "commitment" when they are as old as Bill. For now, they will share the girls, as they share everything else.

_April 1st 1999_

It is not as bad as it might have been, but it is bad enough. What George would really have liked to do is to go to bed on March 31st and not get up until April 2nd, but no one will let him do that. They assemble as many people as they can at The Burrow, friends and family, in the hope that the numbers and the noise will go some way to covering up the gap that none of them can ignore.

There is an impromptu Quidditch match, and Oliver's team thrashes Charlie's soundly. There is one of George's mother's marvellous meals.

Then there is the birthday cake. _"Happy birthday dear Ge-orge, Happy birthday to you."_ There is a beat before the _"George"_ where _"Fredand"_ ought to go, but no one slips up and actually sings it. George does not look up as he blows out the candles. He has never had to do it on his own before, and he fails miserably to get them all in one go. When he does look up, he sees Lee sitting with his face buried in his hands, Angelina with tears on her face, and Charlie pushing his way through the crowd to get away before anyone sees him cry.

George is glad of Ginny's arms round him, so he can bury his face in her hair for a minute and hide his own tears.

The cake is one of his mother's best, but it tastes like sawdust in his mouth.

Birthdays should be shared.

_April 1st 2019_

_"Happy birthday dear Ge-orge, happy birthday to you."_ There is no beat before the _"George"_ any more, they are used to it just being him now. Anyway, there are several people fitting _"Uncle"_in before it, not to mention his own kids stretching _"Da-ad"_ to fit, so that it is ragged enough that no one would notice if the missing beat is there or not.

He catches his mother's eye, and knows that she is thinking the same as he is. Forty-one years old. He has lived longer without his twin than with him. It isn't right.

_"George, give your brother a turn." _

_"Fred, let George have his share." _

_"You'll have to share it, we can't afford one each." _

_"Happy birthday dear FredandGeorge."_

There is a childhood of sharing lying between them. He raises his wine glass towards his mother and mouths Fred's name. She blinks back tears and smiles at him as she raises her own glass.

Birthdays should be shared.


	2. Seamus Finnegan

**Breithla Shona Dhuit**  
_(Seamus)_  
**By Elledreamer**

It was a gorgeous day. Not a cloud in the sky with a light breeze that tousled leaves and breathed calmness. It was just the day for it.

_He was three, clutching his Da's shirts as he was carried upstairs to her bedroom. She greeted him with a warm smile and laughter like sunlight._

Seamus had the window open. It overlooked the small, grubby field behind his apartment. It wasn't much, but it enough so that the fumes of town life didn't get too unbearable.

He was actually meant to be working but he didn't feel like it today. Couldn't do it. Even if he'd tried. As such, he didn't know what to do and found himself pacing, and thinking. Seamus hated thinking too much these days. There was too much to think about. The past mainly. Everyone seemed to be so much happier now. Around him everyone was celebrating the downfall of Voldemort and the freedom that had finally been given to the Wizarding World.

Not that Seamus wasn't happy about it, but it didn't last. The ecstatic feeling that had seemed to settle over everyone hadn't reached him. There had been one too short when they'd been giving out happy feelings. Seamus had lost out.

_He was five. Stood in the kitchen on the small, rickety stool. The kitchen was a mess. But it didn't matter. He'd tentatively climbed the stairs with his Da again, balancing the tray carefully. Ever so carefully._

It wasn't as if he didn't have things to be happy about. He still attended the gatherings, still saw his friends from Hogwarts and went down to the pub for a drink with his local mates. But it wasn't the same. It wouldn't ever be the same.

He was interrupted from his thoughts by the appearance of a Patronus diving in through the open window. The squirrel scuttled across the kitchen worktop before sitting up on it's haunches. Fergus' voice suddenly filled the room, it sounded rather breathless.

"Baby born an hour ago. Little girl. Healthy. Called…Niamh". The Patronus vanished and Seamus frowned. More so for the pause that Fergus had allowed before announcing his new daughter's name. But something about a little baby being born… today of all days. He tried to block it out as he sent his own Patronus back to Fergus with his congratulations though he knew his tone wouldn't exactly express happiness. At least Fergus would understand… he hoped.

_Eight years old. Out in the field with Fergus. He'd collected all the flowers he could find. Even tucked them into the pocket of his dungarees. Upon getting home, he'd put them into a vase. They were drooping slightly, but they filled the kitchen window beautifully. It was going to be a surprise._

Seamus walked over to the calendar next to the door and pulled out his wand. The date stared out at him. Sixteenth of August. He'd never forget today's date. Slowly, with his wand, he inscribed the words: _Niamh O'Connell birthday (1998)_. He didn't let his eyes stray to the name in the same date above. He couldn't let himself. Not now. Not yet.

_Nine. She hadn't been there. Away on a trip. He had been worried. How would he give it to her? A hurriedly made card was attached to the owl along with a box of chocolates. A return the next day let him know it was appreciated._

It did make him think. Of his own birthdays. When he was younger, they'd usually been an excuse for all the adults to get together for a drink. Seamus had usually been content with the few friends that were there for him. It was never really a celebration of his birthday, not until he was old enough to protest about it. When he was nine some of his uncles had tried to give him 'the birthday bumps' and Seamus had flatly refused, stormed inside and had blatantly declined to talk to anyone for the rest of the week. He had been promised a proper birthday celebration the next year.

But it had never happened. On Seamus's tenth birthday he had gotten up very excited about the day, only to come downstairs to find his parents having a blazing row in the kitchen. He'd spent the majority of the morning sat on the stairs watching them scream at each other. He'd only been noticed when his Da had attempted to get up the stairs and had sworn at him for getting in the way. After that Seamus had retreated to his room and had only appeared when the slamming of the front door told him it was safe. He'd found her crying in the kitchen.

_He was ten. Just the two of them. A walk into the village. A tea at the small café. He had spilt his drink. But she'd just laughed. A waiter had brought a cake. She had been surprised, but happy. White with pink icing and a shamrock in the middle._

Now he looked back on it, Seamus wasn't surprised his parents had split up. Their relationship had been splintered for months. He had gotten a party, but it had been several weeks after his birthday and the whole thing had been rather a hushed affair. It hadn't been the same.

After that he'd been at Hogwarts for most of his birthdays. They were usually spent just as every other student celebrated their birthday at Hogwarts. Opening presents in the morning, having a laugh with mates and doing as little work as possible in lessons. At the time, Seamus had been perfectly content with them. He and Dean had started a pact to always make sure they had a good time on their birthdays.

When he'd turned eighteen it hadn't been much of a birthday at all. The DA was in hiding, his best mate was on the run, the Carrows were worse than ever. And Seamus received a letter telling him his father had been killed. It had been blunt and straight to the point: _Seamus. Your Da has been killed. Death Eaters. So sorry. Can't say more here. Tá cion agam ort. Mam_. It hadn't been a happy birthday.

_They made a tradition of it after that. The Sixteenth of August. A meal in the café. A pink frosted cake. But he never forgot. She always received a breakfast, flowers and a homemade card. He never got too old for that._

Outside the sun was slowly dropping towards the horizon. Seamus knew he had to go. He had to go before it got dark. It wouldn't be right otherwise. He pulled his cloak from the hook by the door and set off.

It felt as though his legs were working automatically. Living on the edge of the town had its advantages and Seamus soon found himself on country lanes. It was immediately satisfying. The quite, hushed surroundings. The homeliness of the hedges, fields and birds comforted Seamus, in a way; it was like he was back at home. Real home.

As he walked his mind drifted. Fergus' wife had finally given birth… It was lovely really. New life now just offered so much hope… The recent events at Hogwarts still weighed heavily on Seamus but somehow the birth of Niamh signalled something new. The birth of a new life. A new beginning. He hoped so.

When he'd heard the name… It was incredibly special. Niamh. He hoped it meant something more. Something more he could look forward too… Seamus knew it would never be better. Not properly. But perhaps little Niamh could make things a little better…

Without even realising he'd reached it. He had to push hard on the gate, the grass was getting overgrown. But it was nice, the golden rushes and bright flowers dotted around. It was just right. Calming.

And there it was. Seamus stood and stared for a couple of seconds before kneeling down in the grass. It took him a while to take it in, but there it was, along with the Irish Blessing –

_May the road rise up to meet you.__  
__May the wind always be at your back._  
_May the sun shine warm upon your face,_  
_and rains fall soft upon your fields._

_Niamh Finnigan_

_August 16th 1954 – May 2nd 1998_

_Loving Mother, Sister and Friend_

_And until we meet again,__  
__May God hold you in the palm of His hand._

Seamus reached his hand out and gently stroked the top of the gravestone. It was warm in the setting sun.

"Happy Birthday Mam. Breithla Shona Dhuit"


	3. Lily Evans

**The Dead Weight Of Men**

_(Lily)_

**By Pinky Green**

_"A woman is air and fire and lightness and strength. Like this little vessel(_hot air balloon)_, that_

_Would rise up to Heaven were it not held down by ballast- bags of sand._

_The dead weight of men with their heads full of sand."_

**_- Francesca Bruni, Casanova, Film of 2005_**

Lily fidgeted as she sat next to James. "What is it, James?" Ever since Lily had accepted a truce with James, he seemed to always seem so _nice_ to her.

"Happy Birthday!" James said cheerfully.

Lily forced a smile. "Thanks; it's kind of you to remember."

Inside, James felt so upset. Why did she have to love the _other _Marauder? He, too, forced a smile. He took out a little something from his bag and handed it over to Lily. "Here. Open it."

"Thank you so much," Lily reluctantly hugged James. It was a little awkward, since she liked the other Marauder. She opened the present: inside was a book about the 'Dead Weight of Men'. James knew Lily liked pondering about philosophy.

James shrugged. "It's nothing really."

Lily sat there, awkwardly. "Well, I must be off, I have to finish that homework with Sirius. The horrible Potions essay."

James gave her a little wave. "This is what I call a microwave."

Lily waved back. "And this is a mexican wave."

They laughed, as Lily got up and left him.

xxx-xxx-xxx

Sitting herself down across to Sirius in the Library, Lily sighed. "We'd better get going them."

Sirius nodded in her way, and smirked. "Happy Birthday Lily."

Lily blushed and replied, "Thanks Sirius."

But within a few seconds, Sirius's face saddened.

"Lily, _why _are you doing this?"

Lily sighed once more. "I can't be left alone without James bothering me. It's not my fault he tags behind me for love every other minute of the day, Sirius."

"But he won't admit that you don't love him," Sirius said. He paused. "My love for him is _true_. _Pure_. Or at least, purer than a whore's."

"Your crude words should be kept to yourself, Sirius," Lily glared at him with a hint of despise. "I am not a whore. Do I walk around the school wearing lacy green bras? No. Do I-"

"No, but you act so flirty around _him_, and James's heart," Sirius paused. "It breaks a little every time he sees you like that."

Lily bit her lip. "But even if I 'flirt' so much around Remus, it's not as if you'll ever ask James out."

"There's a possibility," Sirius smirked.

Lily said doubtfully, "I doubt it."

Sirius's face hardened, as he got up. "Fuck you, Evans. I'm trying to be nice to you, but you're not the least fair to anyone. You can do the Potions Essay. I'm getting out of here."

He swung his bag over his shoulder, and left.

Lily sighed, and too, left the Library.

xxx-xxx-xxx

"Lily?" Lily looked up, as Remus sat down next to her.

She blushed. "Hey Remus."

Lily blushed even more, as Remus looked at her quizzically. "Happy Birthday."

"Thanks," Lily smiled. This could be her chance. "What are you doing tonight Remus?"

"Me?" Remus looked as if he had an urge to raise his eyebrows. "Usual, trying to keep James sane, doing my school work. Finishing my current book."

Lily sighed inwardly. Remus looked at her. "Are you okay Lily?"

"I'm fine," Lily said quite reluctantly.

Remus sighed. "Can I ask you a question?"

_He's going to ask me!_ Lily squealed on the inside.

"Am I that obvious?" Remus asked, cautiously.

Lily grinned. "No, not at all!"

Remus sighed with relief. There was something wrong.

Her voice became a little shaky, "About what Remus?"

Remus bit his lip. "Can I trust you?"

Lily frowned little, but tried to force a smile. So Remus didn't trust her? Was that the truth? "Yes, of course."

"I have this crush…" Remus lowered his voice.

"Go on…" Lily said eagerly, her eyes looking a little like saucepans.

"I have this crush on Sirius."

Lily was on the verge to tears. She looked away a little. "Oh." She said disappointedly.

"I hope you don't have a crush on him or anything…" Remus trailed off.

Lily gasped a little, as she looked back at Remus. She couldn't help snorting with laughter. "Me having a crush on _Sirius_? That's-that's ridiculous!"

Remus shrugged. "Well, you're always talking to him…"

Lily and Remus sat in silence.

Remus shook his head. "But it's gone all wrong."

"Why?" Lily said, whispering a little.

"Because…" Remus paused. "Because he likes James!"

"So?" Lily said. She said smoothly, "You know, Remus, Sirius isn't the only person on the world to love. There are so many other people around you."

Remus nodded his head. "I know, I know. But he's the _one_ for me."

"But Remus," Lily carried on. "You can't just love someone; it's just, bad. There are other people around you, who love you."

Remus snorted. "For example?"

"Your mum, your dad," Lily trailed off, deciding not to say 'me' at the end of that sentence.

Remus looked at her and grinned. "It's not as if I'd ask my mum out, you know."

Lily giggled. "But there's always."

"Always who?" Remus asked, doubtfully.

"Oh!" Lily looked at her watch. "Is that the time? I'd better be off, sorry Remus."

And with that, Lily didn't look back at Remus, and walked up to the Girls' Dorm.

Once reaching her bed, Lily scrunched her face up. There was no chance Remus liked her.

But she asked herself, _why bother with men? A woman is air and fire and lightness and strength. Like this little vessel that would rise up to Heaven were it not held down by ballast- bags of sand. The dead weight of men with their heads full of sand. _

Lily looked out of the window, as she sat herself down on the window sill. Well, if no one wanted to celebrate her birthday with her, she'd have to do it on her own.

xxx-xxx-xxx

Lily swished her wand, standing in the middle of the Quidditch Pitch. She had calmed down, outside with the fresh breeze, flowing through her stream of red hair.

And with a swish of her wand, a hot air balloon was conjured. Lily sighed as she got into the hot air balloon on her own. It was her 18th birthday and she was going to forget all about crushes and love.

She looked down at the bags of sand and grinned a little as she unattached them from the hot air balloon. Slowly, the hot air balloon started to rise.

For tonight, Lily would forget all about Remus, James and Sirius.

"You see," she said aimlessly, as loud as she could. "The dead weight of men."

_Free_, was all Lily could think of.

"The dead weight of men," She whispered to herself.

"_The dead weight of men._"


	4. Fred Weasley

**Wish**

_(Fred)_

**By mackgirl**

Fred loved sharing everything with George; after all they were each half of a whole. It just seemed natural for them to share. They shared clothes, a flat, a successful business, but there was always one day a year that Fred wished he did not have to share. Every year Fred wanted the day to be just about Fred, and not Fred and George. In fact Fred would be fine with the day being just about George as long as it wasn't about the both of them.

Fred never told anyone about this, especially not George because he did not want to risk hurting his brother's feelings. So every year on his birthday, Fred would wake up before anyone else and pretend that it was just his birthday. When everyone else started to wake up, Fred would hold on to hope that this would be the year his wish would come true and that it would somehow be either just his birthday or just George's birthday.

Every year though his hope would shatter when that first person would say "Happy Birthday Fred and George." They would be given presents made out to both of them. They would share the birthday cake and both would blow out the candles. Fred always thought they should have their own presents, and their own cake because a birthday was not something they should have to share. That was why every year Fred would wish for his own birthday.

Even with a war raging, the morning of his twentieth birthday Fred was wide awake, lying on his bed and hoping this would be the year his wish would come true. This would be the year George and he wouldn't have to share a birthday. After about an hour of lying on his bed wishing, the first rays of the morning light began to shine through his bedroom window.

Fred got up out of bed and made his way towards the kitchen. Once in the tiny kitchen, Fred pulled two frying pans out of the cupboard and a carton of eggs and some slices of bacon from the refrigerator. After casting a couple of spells, the eggs were scrambling themselves in one pan, while the bacon was sizzling in another.

"That smells good." George stated as he walked into the kitchen. George pulled the pitcher of juice from the refrigerator and poured two glasses, as Fred dished up the eggs and bacon onto plates. As they sat at the breakfast bar eating George added, "Happy Birthday Fred."

Fred grinned, "Happy Birthday George." That would be the only time all day that a birthday greeting would be given that wasn't addressed to both the twins. As Fred continued to eat his eggs and bacon, he thought maybe just maybe this would be the year.

"Mum wrote last night to remind us to be at the Burrow at 5pm." George said as he chewed on a strip of bacon. "You were already asleep when the owl arrived."

Fred took a gulp of juice from his glass, and then asked, "She isn't planning on throwing us a party is she?"

George nodded, "Bill and Fleur will be there and so will Charlie. I think maybe a couple of Order members but everyone else is either busy with the war, in hiding or at school."

Fred shook his head as his hope slowing slipped away from him. After breakfast was over and the dishes were cleared and washed, Fred and George got ready for work then headed down stairs to open up the shop. Most their business these days were through mail order and so Fred went in the back to work on those while George stayed in front to take care of any customers that might come in.

The day went by quickly and before Fred knew it George was calling into the back room that it was time to go to the Burrow. Fred put the finishing touches on one last order, and then headed up to the flat to floo over to the Burrow. "Ready?" George asked as Fred entered the flat.

"Sure, let's get this over with." Fred said as he grabbed a handful of Floo powder, "After you."

George threw down the powder and in seconds he had disappeared into the flames. Fred followed, and as he came out of the Burrow's fireplace he found himself in a bone crushing hug. Next to him was George, equally being squeezed to death by their mother. "Fred! George! I'm so glad you two made it okay. You'relooking a little peaky have you two been eating at all? By the way Happy Birthday Fred and George." Molly was saying.

"Get off Mum, I'm fine." Fred mumbled.

Molly held on a couple of more minutes before letting go. "Everyone is in the kitchen, dinner is almost ready, and why don't you two go in and join everyone?"

Fred and George just shrugged as they followed Molly into the kitchen. Off to one side was a small pile of presents, and sitting in the middle of the table was a gigantic magenta cake with the words "Happy Birthday Fred and George" written in yellow frosting. Fred and George both took their seats around the table and Fred was soon caught up in a conversation with Charlie about Potterwatch.

After the delicious meal that Molly had prepared was gone and the dishes had been cleared, Molly levitated the presents over to the table. Fred opened the three presents made out to just him while George opened the three presents made out to just George, then they took turns to open the twenty-five presents that were made out to the both of them. Then Molly lit the candles and after a chorus of "Happy Birthday Fred and George", the twins blew out the candles together.

Later that night as everyone started to leave and Fred was waiting for his turn to use the floo, he thought as he always did that maybe next year would be the year he wouldn't have to share his birthday with George. Fred smiled as he thought to himself while taking a hand full of floo powder, yes next year would be the year his wish would come true. Maybe, just maybe, next year would somehow be the year it would be just his birthday, or just George's. As Fred threw the floo powder and stepped into the green flames, he knew deep down that he would always have to share his birthday with George, but it didn't stop him from wishing that he wouldn't have to.


	5. Hugo Weasley

**Balloons**

_(Hugo)_

**By Little Black Inkblot**

Hugo can remember his fourth birthday vividly – it is the first memory he has of any of his birthdays.

He remembers it all – several bunches of bright balloons in the house, a birthday cake sitting on the table in the kitchen, just begging to be eaten, playful decorations hung around the house. Lots of presents left in the living room, sporting bright wrapping paper and bows and cards. All his parents' friends and relatives and their children and Hugo's other friends, too.

And strangers, tons and tons of strangers Hugo's never seen before. Strangers that came because they knew it was Hugo's birthday, and Hugo is the son of Ron and Hermione Weasley, people who are among the most famous and influential witches and wizards of the wizarding world. They mill about the house, leaving presents on the front step.

Hugo remembers the same thing happening to Rosie on her birthday. She had opened the door and given cheerful hellos to them all, happily accepting their gifts and saying thank you just like Mummy and Daddy had taught her too.

Hugo stays in the house, eyes widened, and occasionally darts glances at all the scary people outside. He won't come out. He's already seen too many people – people who are _in_ the house – already.

Whenever a balloon comes too close, Hugo jumps, then dashes back to a corner in the kitchen, where the only balloon is tied onto a chair – the chair for the birthday boy. Whenever he steals a look at the heaps of presents – inside or outside – he wonders if they're really all for him, or if it's all a cruel joke. He gives a small wave to the guests when they greet him, and though he'll usually play like any other toddler, this time he shies away from his friends. He stares at the cake and wonders if it's the only good thing there, and he wants to eat it badly. But as Mummy always says, Hugo can't be selfish; that's bad.

Hugo shuts his eyes and wonders when it'll all be over.

Finally comes the time when Mummy ushers him to the birthday boy's seat, and as the guests crowd around him in an enlarged kitchen, they all sing Happy Birthday to him and more than ever Hugo feels as if he's in a terribly unwanted spotlight.

After the last carried note of the "you" ends, Daddy cuts the cake and gives all the kids a piece – Mummy bought grownup sweets for the adults because the cake wasn't big enough for everyone; it was only for the children, anyway.

The double chocolate cake gives Hugo a refuge, and he savors slicing off each piece and delivering it to his mouth, chewing it slowly and then swallowing it. It's the only thing that doesn't happen only once a year, it's something that can be had without pushing him into the center of attention. Hugo can almost imagine he's shoveling Rosie's chocolate birthday cake into his mouth, or one of his cousins', and not his own.

After cake, last goodbyes, hugs, and Hugo reciting the words "thank you for coming" to every guest, the party's over, and Hugo lets out a deep breath. But before he can open his presents, Mummy tells him he has to say a hello and thank you to all the odd strangers that weren't invited. Sighing, Hugo toddles up to the door, opens it, and does just that, though his "hello" and his "thank you" are mumbles. He has a great respect for his mummy.

Then come the presents, and Hugo delights in ripping all the wrapping paper of each and every gift open without any help. He doesn't even frown when he gets something he doesn't particularly want.

But then Daddy opens the door and summons all the gifts the strangers left him into the living room, and Hugo opens them, too. But this time no joy accompanies the tearing of the bows or in the great revealing of what exactly the present is. Just burning red cheeks, widened eyes, knowing that he only got all this because of Mummy and Daddy. Do they think he'll want to get to know or like them if they leave him presents? Or do they do it just because he's special?

Hugo doesn't want to know.

He almost collapses in relief when Daddy asks him if he'd mind if they sent those extra presents from the strangers to the wizarding orphanage Uncle Harry set up, so orphans could play with all the toys.

That night Mummy and Daddy take down the balloons and the decorations, and Hugo beams as he looks upon his home, all normal again with nothing about him, nothing to point people to Hugo.

So his fourth birthday ends, and Hugo becomes one of the only children in the world who is able to wait for their next.

For two more birthdays – his fifth and sixth – basically the same events happen, events that happen around a miserable Hugo. Finally, around a month before his seventh birthday, Hugo asks Mummy, "Do I need to have a party again?"

Hugo always marvels how his mummy never seems surprised. Without even widened eyes, she replies, "Not if you don't want to, Hugo."

For his seventh birthday, there are no decorations or balloons in the house. There are no strangers leaving him presents on the doorstep, because Mummy publicly asked for no one to do this on her son's birthday. (A couple people still do, though.) There is still a cake, the one familiar thing from all other birthdays that doesn't bother Hugo, and only his closest friends are invited. Mummy explains all this to the friends and family so they aren't offended.

It is like this for all Hugo's other birthdays before Hogwarts, and Hugo revels in it. Sometimes friends ask why he doesn't have big birthdays; he just smiles and says they don't know what they're missing.

In his seventh year, Hugo's eighteenth birthday rolls around. He receives gifts and cards from his friends and parents. Usually Hugo leaves it at that and is perfectly pleased.

This time, however, he is not. He has an unexplainable feeling, a feeling for something _more._ Something that shows it's his birthday, his special day; something completely out of character for Hugo.

The day of his birthday also happens to be a day during one of the Hogsmeade weekends. While strolling alone, he notices that there is a small shop with toys for children. Hugo spots balloons in it. He hasn't seen a balloon since six, during Rose's birthday; she had announced that night that now that she was _eight_, she was too old for childish balloons.

Hugo walks in and buys himself a flashy, bright, red balloon.

He feels considerably better after that.


	6. Hedwig

**India**

_(Hedwig)_

**By Perspicacity**

Forward Strike Coordinator, Scene Commander.

Code name: India

Gender: Female

Human name: Hedwig

Breed: Snowy White

Age: 13 winters

Wingspan: 4.1 rats

Training: Reconnaissance. Tactics. Espionage. Endurance flight.

Special abilities: Far sensing. Adept at training humans.

Breeding status: Unbred, but life pair (See file on Phantom).

Clearance: Most Secret, cleared for Secret Compartmentalized Information

Commendations: Order of the Silver Feather; Eagle Feather

Symbiote: Harry Potter, a.k.a. The Boy Who Lived

Bonded to human of priority Alpha Prime (1). Relationship is symbiotic and stable, no known abuse. Human is highest risk level extant. Operative placed at 4 Papa Delta, ground zero for Operation Birthday Surprise.

(1) Alpha Prime designation created solely for symbiote.

* * *

Hermes, a tawny grey barn owl, blinks as the last of his dossiers transmits via mental link to his superior, Omicron, a grey and tan eagle owl. The younger owl fluffs his feathers officiously. "As you can see, sir, I've assembled a team of the highest calibre. I would be honored if you would permit me to coordinate this operation."

The older owl shakes his head slowly. "Negative. Operation Birthday Surprise is far too hot for you to handle." The wizened owl leans back and stares down the younger owl until Hermes bobs his head in submission.

"Sir," he continues, blinking owlishly, "I've worked hard. It's time I had a chance..."

"I think not! You've 'busted the clutch' enough times as is--you didn't earn the nickname 'Bravo-Charlie' for nothing. This is the most important operation we've fielded since Phantom's squadron brought down communications to Voldemort's C&C back in the first war." He ruffles his feathers importantly. "I'll be calling this one, chick."

"Sir, the strain--are you sure you can keep a mindlink up that long? You'll be spanning hundreds of kilometers."

"I can handle it, chick. I've got to--this one is just that important. But I want you there with me, just in case." He lightly cuffs the younger owl with his wing. "Better go see India and get yourself up to speed on Ops. She's coordinating the strike with Phantom."

Hermes bobs his head and jumps into a low flutter.

* * *

"What the hell are _you_ doing here, Bravo-Charlie?" a diminutive owl asks.

"He's probably here to relay something from Omicron," a female voice hoots. India, decorated war hero, spy mistress, feathered goddess, blinks owlishly at the newcomer, who shuffles back and forth on his feet nervously. She hoots in gentle laughter. The thirteen barn owls present, who comprise the Strike Team, all hoot derisively; the four smaller, dark-grey northern hawk owls, Runt's forward strike team, make "Ululululuh" purring sounds.

Hermes ruffles his feathers angrily and turns his head around 180 degrees to face away from the others.

"Hey, it's okay, chick--they're just having a spot of fun," India says, her dulcet hoots assuaging his wounded pride somewhat.

"Look, I know I sort of dropped the eggs last mission," he sniffs. "It won't happen again, I promise."

"Sort of?" hoots one of the owls, nudging his buddy with his wing.

"No it won't," a wizened, grizzled barn owl hoots from the back ranks. The team leader bobs forward and stares down Hermes. "Because I'll peck your eyes out myself if I lose another one of my birds through your incompetence. _Do I make myself clear_?"

"That's enough, Sampson," India cautions, wedging herself between the two. "I'm coordinating this one, not you. If Omicron wants Hermes in the loop, so be it. We've got enough problems without fighting amongst ourselves."

A faint flutter whispers behind the assembled parliament and a very large, proud, white owl with grey mottling about his back and wings sets down. India blinks and cants her head lovingly. The large owl bobs forward, the parliament parting before him, as he bobs forward, stately.

"India," he hoots, deep and powerful. "Are we good to go?"

"Yes, love." She turns to the assembled birds. "Operation Birthday Surprise is set to launch at 20:40 tomorrow evening. We need the teams in place as they depart..." She looks at her companion, his muscled, stately form statuesque against the gloaming, and loses herself for a moment in his eyes, opalescent orbs of radiant gold. Blinking, she continues, "I'll be on point coordinating over secure channel Delta X-ray Seven. In the event of compromise, we're cleared for backup channels Alpha Bravo Three and Alpha Tango Two.

"Two of Phantom's team will ride with each of the decoys with an emphasis on dispatching ravens _with extreme prejudice_. This is a _very_ hot mission, raptors. I don't have to tell you how important it is that we pull through. Runt, you and the Forward Strike Team shadow Alpha Prime, who will be riding on a motorcycle...

* * *

"Hermes!" hoots the tall, snowy owl as the last of the strike team flap away

"Sir!" The tawny barn owl snaps to attention, his hero-worship of Phantom making the older owl uncomfortable.

"I know I was pretty rough on you last time, chick," he hoots quietly and candidly. "You did your best, I know." Hermes bows his head, eyes closed, relieved that he's not being chewed out. "...It's just that you're a disaster of a strike coordinator," the older bird hoots angrily, cuffing him hard across the head with his wing. "So let's get one thing straight, right now, you and me, _chick_: you 'bust the clutch' this time, put India in danger or, heaven forbid, get her hurt through your incompetence, and I'll peck your eyes out myself. Got it?" He straightens and Hermes nods, backing away.

* * *

_Omicron here. Central is ready. Your teams in place, Phantom?_

Phantom's voice calls over the channel. _Strike teams, sound off. _

_Red team in position._

_Blue team check, good._

The remainder of the teams indicate their readiness and Phantom's voice sounds once again. _Gold team locked and loaded, Omicron. Good flying, raptors_.

Omicron's continues. _ Good work, Phantom. India, report status_.

* * *

India, alias Hedwig, blinks at the fourteen assembled wizards in the primary site, Papa Delta 4, a.k.a. Number Four, Privet Drive. Outside are several brooms, a classic Triumph motorcycle with a sidecar, and a thestral. Having been around death more times than she can count, India has no trouble seeing the charcoal-coloured, leathery beast.

She blinks and looks outside, seeing Runt and his four diminutive team members perched atop a line. Small but deadly, they preen and prepare for battle. Ravens, the guard for Voldemort, are flighty and have a habit of overlooking Runt and his team, much to their misfortune.

She sees a spirited discussion between her human symbiote and the others and she senses that he is getting overly agitated. Closing her eyes, she sends out telepathic feelers and checks the proximity of friends and enemies. _Dammit, we can't risk delay--there's two flocks of ravens on the way..._ She flaps to her human's shoulder and rubs his head with hers, hooting softly and melodically, hoping she can instill confidence and a will to go forward. She knows they won't get another chance.

"Hedwig, girl. I'm sorry, but you're going to have to ride in your cage. But I promise you, we'll let you out the minute we get there."

_Omicron, bad news--they're locking me in. I'm caged for the flight. What's the call now?_

_Can you still sense, India?_

_Yes. Not as well, but I can manage._

The channel is quiet for a long moment before Omicron continues. _Then you'll have to oblige. We can't risk blowing your cover at this stage of the game. _

_Phantom here. I don't like it, not a bit. India, can you fly the coop, get out of there? You can still shadow Alpha Prime and coordinate the defense._

_Negative, Phantom. My human symbiote is in a compromised state. He's angry and he's been moulting over a companion--believed to be sister of Runt's symbiote_. India chuckles over the channel. _Hey runt, didn't she give you your alias_?

_Runt here. Affirmative, India. The alias is... Pigwidgeon. I hate that name, by the way--thanks for bringing it up_...

Laughter is heard over the channel. India continues. _He needs the comfort or I'm afraid he'll send the whole mission tits up, and I don't mean the birds. And we need to go now, like ten minutes ago. I've got bogies coming from seven and eight o'clock. Two flocks--you heard me, two flocks, five minutes out, tops. Coming fast, convergent course on 4 Papa Tango._

_Understood, India. Good luck. Omicron out_.

* * *

Furious, Harry plucks several hairs from his head. Six of the assembled witches and wizards drink lumpy grey liquid and turn into copies of India's human. Each dons glasses and clothing that match his and they pick up cages with dummy owls. Hedwig, espying a nearby owl decoy, turns her head around and looks at her own tail feathers, wondering whether she indeed looks that fat from behind.

Her symbiote grabs his broom and her cage and sits inside the sidecar as a very large human climbs onto the motorcycle.

_Team, get ready. Departure is imminent. I'm sensing the enemy flocks breaking up, small skirmish squadrons_.

_Omicron here. Copy that, India_.

_Brooms are off. Thestral's away... now. Motorcycle is leaving... I wish I weren't caged--its magic is masking half my FOV_.

_Copy that. Phantom here, Gold team in position on your flank_.

_Phantom, bogies above, two o'clock. Closing fast. _

_I'm on em, India. _

Phantom and his wing-owl Birddog twist in the air and extend their talons. Birddog, a broad-winged, old barn owl, clips one raven on its wing, snapping the bone like a twig, which sends the owl into a fast clockwise spiral. Phantom stretches his powerful claws wide on each foot. With a deafening screech, he snatches the skull of one of the ravens in his claws. He squeezes, driving a talon deep into the neck of the bird, rendering it lifeless. His other claw catches the wing of the second raven as it flies past. His forward momentum and that of the raven rip the wing off the second bird, which squawks in agony.

Birddog rights himself and slams his body into the tail of a raven, which had changed direction to try to intercept Phantom. Several of the bird's blood feathers snap and it squawks in pain as it falls to the ground.

_Dog, get up here, we've got company_... Birddog looks up to see nearly half a flock of aggressive birds approaching.

* * *

_Gold leader, we've got problems,_ India says_. I'm reading multiple humans approaching from all directions. Suspect primary channel has been been compromised. Recommend immediate switch-over to secondary_.

_Copy that, India_. Omicron coughs roughly. _Can you give us numbers, proximity, bearing?_ He starts to fade out, coughing some more.

_Negative. The damned motorcycle is clouding my sight. I only got a quick look at what we're up against_.

_C--y th-- -ndia. C-- -- give me --date_?

_Omicron, I'm losing you... Omicron, do you copy? Omicron, do you copy? _

India's tiny avian heart stirs as she hears only a slowly fading screech of static over the mindlink channel. Her mentor, the owl who had brought her under his wing, who had taught her since she was a cheeping chick, is no more.

* * *

_Hermes here. Omicron is down. Um... can you report, uh, status, India. How's Alpha Prime? Is he still safe with you?_

_Hermes, you idiot! This channel is compromised. Send out a blanket call--get command routed to Alpha Bravo Three. Stat!_

* * *

_Red three, standing by. Got a human soft target I'm going to take out. _

_Red six standing by. Got your covered, Porkins. Take him out. _

_Oh, crap. Ravens, swoop formation. I can't hold them off. I've got a problem here. _

_Stay on target... _

The red-brown owl swoops to avoid two incoming ravens, but a third clips his wing.

_Stay on target..._

_I can hold it. Aahh. That's close. _

_You alright, Red three?_

_I can hold it, I'm alright. I'm alright... Aaarrrgh._

A third raven swoops from below and collides with Red six from beneath. He slams into the broomstick at maximum speed and explodes in a sea of feathers.

* * *

_Hermes here. Mind telling me what's got your feathers in a twist, India?_ He tries an imperious voice, but fails to mask an undertone of hurt.

_Phantom here. Good call with the channel, India. Hermes, are you sure you are playing for our team?_

Hermes gasps over the line and then says, in a choked voice, _Sorry_. He realizes that he has just broadcast over an insecure channel exactly where Alpha Prime is. The subterfuge of the decoys is lost--ravens can communicate telepathically with Voldemort, which means it's only a matter of time before He arrives.

_Dammit, I can't sense a thing here and my symbiote just started defending from the wizards trailing us too--Phantom, you and Runt get your teams over here now. We need those humans taken out. I'm going to get a better look._

_You heard the lady. Hermes, scramble all teams, converge on Alpha Prime._

* * *

India thinks to herself about how surprising it is that in battle everything slows down, how the instant between life and death affords time to reflect on the things that matter.

She thinks about the irony of the name for this mission, "Birthday Surprise." Seven winters ago, she had started her deployment as a birthday present to her symbiote from the large human driving the motorcycle.

She has watched the boy grow into a formidable wizard and hero. But she's also seen the human side, of birthdays spent in forced captivity in 4 Papa Delta--Privet Drive. Today, in fact, is nearly his birthday once again and inwardly she moults at the pain she's seen in his eyes over the loss of dear friends and his desired mate. Owls mate for life and she suspects her symbiote has more owl in him than one might think.

She knows that professionalism dictates that she distance herself emotionally, that she compartmentalize and marginalize her affection for the boy, yet she cannot. Seven years spent as friend and confidant to the embodied hope of the magical world--if an owl can truly possess a human as more than symbiote, but also friend, she does.

A jagged yellow curse chitters by and startles her from her reverie. Noting that her cage is tied to his broom, she hurls her body against it, causing it to fall out of the tiny sidecar. It swings precariously at the end of the broom, the other end held by her symbiote. Knowing that she has only moments before he pulls her back to the car, she furiously senses the surroundings, sending out feelers to the sky around. This has always been her gift, her unique talent that has made her indispensable on the most dangerous of missions. The reason she was chosen to accompany Alpha Prime.

_India here, I'm taking over this channel. Hermes, keep your beak shut and stay silent. If I'm hit, switch to tertiary line, Phantom takes command. Listen up--I don't have time to repeat. I've got two humans at seven o'clock and three at five o'clock, converging fast. Probably two minutes. I have two in close combat now. Three approaching from below and the rear, five minutes out. Two more ahead. All on brooms. I see another three ahead of that, six minutes out. Two flocks of ravens converging on our position, mostly in smaller units. _

_Runt, kick it into high gear--you're going to be late to the show. Phantom, I need you at three o'clock with gold and green teams. Blue team, stage above us and to the right--you can intercept the humans there and take them out. Yellow, you need to... My Sweet Hooters! Voldemort himself is approaching from below and closing. And he's not on a broom. I repeat, he's not on a broom. I hope my symbiote can figure out what to do with him because he bloody well won't be knocked off! Four minutes tops before he arrives. _

Curses start to fly fast as the first owl team arrive.

_Okay, you have your assignments. I'm out--gotta try to play defense. Fly well, team. Let's all get out of this alive._...

* * *

Each owl, emboldened by the courage of their beloved India, put on a burst of speed as they converged upon what later became known as the greatest air battle the Owl Corps has ever fought. All acquitted themselves that evening, except for Hermes who, blinded mysteriously, resigned from the Corps in disgrace.

In the aftermath, five owls received Order of the Bronze Feather commendations and Birddog received the Order of the Silver Feather; seven were given Eagle Feather distinction. Phantom, himself, earned only the third-ever Order of the Gold Feather for his selfless heroics. He became a veritable force of nature, single-handedly destroying a flock of ravens and slaying three of the dark-robed humans, including one in particular with whom he had a terrible vendetta.

India never saw the end of the battle. Confined as she was, she was relegated to protecting her symbiote by hurtling her body against the cage to intercept curses with its thick, brass base. Later analysis of the damage to the cage showed that she blocked three curses that way, including two which would have been instantly fatal. The fourth, a Killing Curse, would have slain Alpha Prime, except that she desperately threw her body into its path. Her final words, heard by all over the channel, were, _I love you, Phantom_.

If an owl could be said to rampage, Phantom did just that. As the curse struck down his beloved, he was near enough to see her golden eyes shine one last time. They showed love and sorrow. But not regret.

He screeched mightily and pummeled India's slayer off his broom. He then flew straight into the face of the other attacking human and jammed his talons into the eye sockets of the white mask to blind the man. The human fell shortly thereafter.

But Phantom was not done.

The fury of his attack on the raven flock became the stuff of legend--twenty four confirmed kills against impossible odds. When the final accounting was made, the formerly white bird, cerise with the blood of his enemies, collapsed in exhaustion, keening a horrible lament. A one-bird army who had even joined battle with the Dark Lord himself, distracting him at a key moment to allow Alpha Prime to fire a yellow bolt at the snake-faced beast.

India would never celebrate her fourteenth birthday.


	7. Neville Longbottom

**Birthday Traditions**

_(Neville)_

**By McFlyFan101**

Every family has a tradition for birthdays, whether it's going out for a family meal, or just staying home to be together. Whatever it is, birthdays are meant to be fun, aren't they?

He never cared much for his birthday, he wasn't like the other kids who counted down the days and started planning a party months before. All his birthday did was remind him of the truth, the horrible truth he'd rather forget. The day seemed to drag on, but all he wanted to do was lie down and sleep until it was over. July 30th. Just another date.

**1988 His 8****th**** birthday**

Like every year he got up and went downstairs. A small pile of cards and presents were waiting for him on the table. He picked one card up and opened it; _To Neville Happy Birthday from Gran_. He pushed the other presents aside and sat down at the table.

"Happy birthday, now eat up because we've got to go!" His grandmother instructed, placing a plate of bacon and eggs in front of him. He ate in silence and went back upstairs to get dressed. His grandmother was already waiting for him at the door when he came down.

"Hurry up boy, or we'll be late," she sighed pushing him along in front of her. Obediently he let himself be guided into the garden and took his gran's hand and shut his eyes tight.

When he opened his eyes again he saw an all too familiar sight. St Mungo's Hospital. He stumbled slightly as his gran pushed him towards the entrance. Together they walked to the entrance desk.

"Hello welcome to St Mungo's, how can we help you today?" The witch at the desk smiled.

"Neville and Augusta here to see Frank and Alice Longbottom." Augusta replied not returning the smile. She grabbed hold of his hand again and marched him down the corridors.

He loved his parents of course but he still wished he was somewhere else. They didn't even know who he was. He didn't know what his father thought but to his mum he was simply 'someone she liked'. That's not how a mother is meant to think about her son.

They entered a familiar part of the hospital and stopped beside a door. 'Closed ward' the door read. Neville took a deep breath and pushed the door open. A healer walked silently towards them. "Hello again. No change I'm afraid. Oh and happy birthday." He smiled ruffling Neville's hair. Neville smiled before he was once again pushed forward by his grandmother. Silently he made his way to the two beds at the end of the ward. The curtain had been pushed back and he could see his parents sitting up in the beds.

"Hi Mum. Hi Dad."

Alice looked up at him, and smiled vaguely handing him Drooble's best blowing gum wrapper.

"Thanks, Mum."

For once in his life he'd like to have a normal birthday. One which he didn't spend in a hospital, but one where he could have fun and laugh with his parents and friends. One where he could open his presents curled up on a sofa with his mother's arm around him and his father smiling broadly taking pictures of his son being happy. But this was how he'd always spend it. Talking softly to his parents as they lay in a hospital bed. Wondering who he was and why he visited so much.

_Damn traditions._


	8. Lucius Malfoy

**The Writer's Block**

_(Lucius)_

**By Lady Dragonrose**

The large lofty drawing room of the ancient manor had served a very old line of purebloods for centuries. The pleasant, deep green silk that covered the walls had faded slightly, but still held their elegance and spoke of many memories. The furnishing in the room was equally majestic and had they been represented by living people, the room would have found itself accommodating more refined individuals than perhaps the entire wizarding world would have ever seen.

That was not to say that the real occupants of the house were any less graceful. If their furniture and house was anything to go by, they were real connoisseurs of style. There was no forced atmosphere of greatness within these walls; tradition and pride radiated from the antique room and hinted of the pureblood magnitude that had always walked the floors of the self-righteous chamber.

But right now, the room was witnessing more shock than all the multiple years put together as the unfamiliar sound of profanities pierced the otherwise pleasing and languid atmosphere.

The only breathing soul in the room was using his fortunate circumstance of being alive (which the furniture envied no end) to growl words of intense frustration while simultaneously wringing his hands and pacing feverishly across the wooden floor boards.

"_Damn!_" the man snarled, slamming his hand down on a nearby writing table as he passed. It had to be one of the milder comments he had made so far on the situation. A handsome eagle feather quill that had been resting in the ink bottle, fell out at the jolting judder of the table and splattered a few droplets of dark ink across the empty parchment that was sitting across the surface of the desk.

"_Shit!_" the man hissed as he hurried over to the desk and tried to straighten everything up again. He gazed down at the ink spots that stained the stark expanse of the parchment with deep dislike. It was as if fate itself was mocking him by throwing in all nuisances and calamities at the one time when he could really do without, and providence's infuriating derisive timing was deliberately trying to rub his nerves raw.

"_Stupid piece of…_" he had started saying in a venomous voice, but paused as he had been about to insert the inevitable swear word. Did he really want to debase himself by spitting vulgar oaths and curses at a piece of parchment? He really was losing his self-control if he couldn't resist from lowering himself to the standards of the ultimate coward, choosing to swear at objects that were apparently too lifeless to make a decent retort.

He breathed deeply to try and calm the irritated rage bubbling inside him and slowly sat himself down in the chair that was paired with the table. He stared at the blank parchment before him, the measurement of one foot looking like a frighteningly long stretch of yellow vastness that he was going to have to fill. He really was lost for words and his logic seemed only too willing to cooperate with his brain, which had gone on strike.

The ink spots that were like blemishes on the dreaded parchment, stared up at him scornfully, as if to say that even his lifeless quill could make attempts at writing (although the marks didn't resemble words in the slightest) while he hadn't even managed to pen down one word on the writing surface in the three miserable hours he had spent trying to organise his thoughts.

"_Imbecilic piece of hippogriff shit!_" the failing writer snarled, having given up all attempts to maintain dignity as he felt snubbed by the disdainful ink. He passed his hands through his long blond hair, massaging his scalp as he leaned back in his chair. He really wasn't having a good day, and considering it was the day that he was born back in…oh, Merlin, he didn't want to try and calculate, life was being intolerably unfair.

"Right… Calm down," he told himself out loud, as if uttering the words was actually going to make him comply. It was ridiculous that he was losing his self-control just because he was a little vexed, and he didn't know what was wrong with him.

"Bloody parchment! Who invented writing?" he grumbled as he snatched the prostrate quill in a lapse of elegance and violently made himself ready to write something. Dipping the quill into the ink bottle gave him a definite sense of purpose, and he felt himself regain an ounce of his usual calm composure as the nib immersed itself into the friendly black liquid once more.

He pulled the quill back and held it an inch above the top of parchment, imagining himself to be sitting in an impressive poise, looking quite the intellect. He gave himself a small smile before it turned into a frown as he realised that his mind wasn't willing to surrender any decent words yet. Perhaps thinking out loud might trigger the intricate cogs of the supposedly clever wizard he was meant to be to start working again.

"Dear minister? To whom it may concern? To a foolish reader? No, no…" he said with a shake of his head. He desperately needed something to inspire him to make a start, because he knew what he wanted to put in words and he knew what he wished to put across to any readers, but he just didn't have a clue how to begin.

"Maybe… Third person point of view? No… Sounds too impersonal," he murmured thoughtfully to himself. "A beginning, a middle and an end," he told himself firmly, remembering back to his school days when essays had been a regular intrusion in his life. "A brilliant introduction will have the reader captivated. If that can be achieved, the rest of the essay is easy meat," he said, reciting the wise words of his once-professor Horace Slughorn. The man's advice had been actually quite useful, even if the bouncing house master himself had been a little irritating.

"A title. That's what I need…" the potential writer mused. "How about 'The Life and Times of Lucius Malfoy'?" he suggested to himself out loud, ignoring the fact that he was probably living up to the wild rumours about him being a schizophrenic who had insomnia and also had pyromaniac tendencies when within ten metres of Order of the Phoenix members.

"That sounds too cliché," Lucius admitted to himself. "And everyone hates a cliché."

He paused in his thoughts that weren't progressing anywhere and glanced down at the impending essay and realised that he had managed to decorate the top of the parchment with a trail of random blotches of ink that had dripped off of the end of his unmoving quill.

"Bugger," he sighed as he set his quill down. His brain still seemed to be in reverse gear and was refusing to acknowledge his inner pleas for it to start spouting grandiloquent words it was usually bursting to shout. "Come on!" he muttered impatiently as he drummed his fingers on the top of the desk and stroked his chin with his other hand. He had to admit, even if he wasn't actually coming up with anything useful, at least the intelligent pose he was holding was quite uplifting.

"Something poetic… Something stylish…" he muttered to himself, mentally rifling through all the words he had gathered during his years alive and searching for the right words that would show him to be fairly humbled, but distinctly refined.

" 'Poems on an Eloquent Subject '?" he asked the room, hoping for a response. "Or maybe even 'Forty-Five Haikus To Explain Why Lucius Malfoy Should Be Seen As Reformed And Trustworthy'?"

When the furniture gave no opinion but continued to look at him with distinct woodiness, he gave them an evil glare before picking up his downhearted tone with a spot of sarcasm. Dry humour always did him wonders.

"Back to work…" he muttered, picking up the quill again and forcing himself to write. Five minutes later, and he was staring down at a floridly written word that was making him feel a little more heartened and encouraged.

_The_

Well, it was a beginning, if not the end.

_The End_

He chuckled out loud at the irony of the title and proceeded to carefully rip off the top, still chortling to himself. Those two words summarised his current position in life quite nicely, and he had to admit, it made him bitter to think of it. So, the Dark Lord had died and he had convinced the goodies that he was actually quite a pleasant, if not misunderstood character who had decided that the pureblood cause was utter bull when it came down to it. He had abandoned his 'master' to go searching for his precious son and it had been as much of a 'happily ever after' as a bad guy was expected to get.

Now they were free, and after this little essay about his reasons and motives in life, he would be completely liberated from any qualms that still drifted in the ministry about his past conduct.

"Firstly, choosing a genre and theme," he told his lifeless audience. What should this be? A grateful, apologising essay that had him practically kowtowing in the general direction of the wonderfully ministry?

_Pfff!_ _Wonderful ministry; my arse! Malfoys never apologise and it's embarrassing enough to have to actually write something longer than five sentences for the load of morons who call themselves a ministry! My talents all wasted!_

"Don't you think?" he asked the curtains, imagining the soft green velvet drapes to be nodding vigorously with him. After all, he was sure that even lifeless, unmoving bits of cloth were smart enough to know the difference between a ministry of morons and a ministry of magic.

"Angst?" he mused, thinking that he had plenty of material from first-hand experiences to work off of if he wanted to write a letter of anguish. He hadn't exactly lived the best life in the world, even if he had enough money to drown himself in. Perhaps he could spin a tale of deepest remorse and use all the depressing factors in his past to his advantage. _My father was an alcoholic and an aristocratic vagrant; my mother was a depressed, semi-suicidal insomniac who had better things to do than look after her only son. Put the two together and voila! C'est Lucius Malfoy!_

"I feel so depressed," Lucius said sarcastically, totally unbothered by his past. No wonder he had become a hard-hearted adamant. He hadn't exactly had much of a childhood and according to Freud and all that Muggle drivel, that was where his problems probably escalated from.

"Angst and Malfoys? No… It's too soppy and weepy," he stated as he gazed thoughtfully ahead of him, the windows giving him a pleasing view of the immaculate front lawn coupled with sunshine. _Better leave all the tear-jerkers to Potter. He's quite a hand at spinning sad tales. "I'm an orphan." "You Know Who killed my parents." "I have no family." "I've got a scar as compensation"._

"And like we give a monkey's arse!" Lucius guffawed out loud in response to the sarcastic musings in his head. Harry Potter really was an unending source of amusement in the Malfoy family, especially with him and Draco, even though he had to admit that it was a little too malicious at times.

"Back to reality," he reminded himself. He had to write this stupid thesis of his utterly boring life which was basically full of nothing that spectacular. A few spots of Muggle torture now and then. Honing his blackmailing skills. Learning to look incredibly frightening. Perfecting the art of nasty smirks, snobbish drawls and deadly glares. All in all, that was him in a nutshell.

"What should I write?" he moaned in desperation, glad that no-one was present to witness his complete lack of dignity and proper pride. He looked up with bleary eyes and saw Draco strolling across the front lawn, looking quite the little philosopher with his hands in his pockets and head bowed in thought. This was it; he was going to have to forget his Earth-sized ego and ask for a little bit of help. No, make that advice. Maybe even a light opinion.

With a wave of his wand, the window had opened and he rose slightly out of his chair to call his son. He had been about to yell, but it struck him as too improper, so he settled with levitating a piece of spare parchment he had scrawled a message on and sent it hovering to Draco's side. He watched with sadistic amusement as the young Malfoy continued to walk slowly, too lost in thought to notice the slip of material floating at his side. Lucius flicked his wand a bit and made the written message sneak up behind Draco's head and start poking inside his ear to give a tickling effect.

_God, I'm such a horrible father!_ he thought with a smirk as Draco began to start a series of dismissive swats to his ear that blossomed into annoyed punches in the air. He held in his laughter as his son finally saw the cause of his aural discomfort and proceeded to read the message before turning to glare in his direction. By that time, Lucius had made sure he was sitting back in a pose that spoke of his power and dominance in the family. _That should put the little twerp off the idea of hexing me._

"You wanted me, father?" Draco asked stiffly as he wandered over to the open window and saw his father apparently extremely busy with work from the ministry.

"Yes. Seeing as you're the only inhabitant in the house who has attended school in the last decade, tell me; what would be an appropriate word to signify some sort of apology without sounding like it?" Lucius asked in his most superior manner, trying not to sound like he was desperate for help. Draco narrowed his eyes slightly as he looked at Lucius suspiciously.

"It this some kind of trick question?"

"What do you mean?" Lucius asked in careless unconcern.

"Is it going to be another one of those 'whatever answer and I'm going to hex you' questions?"

"Whatever gives you _that_ idea?" Lucius asked with an indignant sniff, struggling to hold in his laughter. Draco gave a small shrug before muttering something Lucius didn't quite catch. _Better not ask for a repeat_, he thought wisely, knowing that Draco had become quite open with his comments about his father recently.

"Draco? An answer to my question? I don't have all day to waste watching you stand there like some sort of itinerant outside the window," Lucius drawled patronisingly while Draco snapped to.

"I don't know. Ask mother. I don't think school did much for me except give me a taste of obnoxious teenage life," Draco replied sullenly before walking away with hunched shoulders. _Honestly, that boy is really inheriting my unfortunate mother's traits_, Lucius thought with a shake of his head. He might be going round the bend and up the wall, but at least he wasn't a depressive.

"Oh, Merlin…" Lucius groaned in despair, having made sure the window was closed once more and charmed to be tinted so that Draco couldn't see his father sprawled over the desk and clutching his hair in despondency. Draco was right; he should write to Narcissa and ask for her aid, but something in his memory of a pureblood's etiquette told him that writing to the ex-wife and demanding some kind of intellectual help wasn't exactly orthodox. He might be able to get away with it, considering the fact that he and Narcissa had parted ways on completely amicable terms and were still respective acquaintances, but somehow, he knew that the frigid woman wouldn't welcome his feigned flatteries and secret demand for assistance. Besides, it was completely degrading to know that he, Lucius Malfoy, was having to rely on someone else to write this dissertation for him.

"Time to swallow the pride," he told himself with a sigh as he stood up. Grabbing his cloak and cane, he made for the door, knowing that he was on a self-appointed quest for the right word.

* * *

Diagon Alley was a happy place at three o' clock in the afternoon and the summer sun really was painting a picturesque scene. Smiling shoppers were practically skipping along the cobbled street as the wizarding world felt only joy and triumph at the new, bright world that had been created since the death of Voldemort. Children were happily devouring ice creams while they laughed innocently, glad to be out of school and frolicking around in their long summer holidays. Even the adults looked fairly cheerful, given their usual zombie-faces scrunched in smiles.

But as the tall, well-built man swathed in formidable black robes swept up the street, the smiles faltered and dark clouds passed over the people's faces.

Lucius Malfoy was in town and life was going to suddenly veer off course and land in a guttered ditch.

Lucius, himself, had to admit that he was looking admirably dangerous today. Clutching his serpent-headed cane in his gloved hand, he could feel the fearful looks that were being thrown his way and smirked to himself. Oh, how he loved this power!

His pathway cleared a mile ahead of him as people avoided his withering gaze and even stepped into random shops they would have never entered, just to keep away from the ex-Death Eater and scary pureblood. Lucius gave them all an imperious smirk as he passed, knowing that he was going to have to look a little friendly if he didn't want to be carted off to Azkaban.

Passing a small café, he felt the ogling eyes of three giggling girls on him and he gave them all a small, alluring smirk that had them hiding their blushing faces in their hands. At least he was still good-looking, if nothing else. He might have to add that to his long list of wonderful attributes in his essay. He sauntered over to the familiar shop where he had engaged in less pleasant activities such as a fist-fight with one Arthur Weasley. It had been quite a horrendous moment to have books crashing down on him while the red-haired nuisance launched himself at him. With a wand, Lucius would have had him floored in seconds, but he hadn't done too badly with sheer manpower. _Potential boxing skills_, he told himself and made a mental note.

Flourish and Blotts looked the same as ever and it was surprisingly calming to see so many shelves of books that extended the chance of him finding what he was looking for. Upon entering the building, the shop assistants had given him trembling looks before they gave wavering smiles that threatened to become tearful bawls. Lucius gave them a small nod to acknowledge them before heading off to peruse the aisles.

He had been wandering along the Dark Arts section (old habits died hard) when he spotted a pretty, young woman flicking through a book. Intrigued to find someone like her reading books of nasty genre, he thought he'd take a chance. After all, life was all about taking chances, wasn't it? And why not get two birds with one stone? He liked to think about having this bird, and he'd be able to get his writing started and finished as well.

"Excuse me, miss," he said softly so as not to alarm her. The girl looked up with a start as he approached, but the fearful look disappeared when he gave her a charming smile. "You look like a clever young lady."

Strike! That compliment had the effect he had been looking for. The bright blue eyes were clouding over in something totally inappropriate for such a young female and a dreamy expression had slipped onto her face. Brilliant.

"I was wondering if you could possibly think of a good word or two to help me?" he asked in his most pleasant voice. _Gods! I'm such a user!_

"What_ kind_ of words, Mr Malfoy?" the girl answered coyly, batting her long lashes at Lucius while licking her lips slightly.

_Damn! She knows who I am! This question is supposed to remain anonymous! Well, that's Plan B out the window._

"Ah… Perhaps something in the region of…minor Transfiguration? I am currently researching something…" he said, inwardly cringing as he imagined himself poring over ancient manuscripts with spectacles perched haphazardly on nose and hair frazzled from feverish research. It really was an image he didn't want to think about.

"Erm… I don't know much about Transfiguration… I'm only in sixth-year…" the girl said nervously, disappointed to find out that the luscious man standing before her was after something only someone like Professor Granger would know about. Lucius almost choked when she announced the last bit. _He had been about to get with a sixteen-year-old?_ That was just wrong. He was going to remove himself from this embarrassing scene as swiftly as possible, and knowing him, he could move pretty quick.

"There's no need to worry," he told her with another heart-wrenching smile. "Thank you for your time." And with that, he was in another aisle, trying not to hyperventilate at the thought of his mistake. _That teaches me to stop playing Casanova_, he told himself, knowing when morals were supposed to be learnt, even though he had been a fervent practitioner of immoral conduct for forty-five years. He turned to look around the books in the vicinity, when he caught sight of a strangely familiar mane of bushy hair and a sadistic smile tugged at his lips. _Just what I need to make my day_, he thought with an evil smirk. Trust the know-it-all of the Golden Trio to be spending her spare time in a bookshop. Lucius slowly approached her, and walked so softly that she didn't hear him. She couldn't see him either since she had her back to him, but Lucius felt like a real predator as he made ready to pounce.

"Having a nice read?" he murmured in her ear, expecting the usual alarmed shrieks and passing out that most victims of his prowling would have rightfully chosen to carry out. This girl's reaction, therefore, was completely unexpected.

"Bugger off, Draco," said a weary voice and Hermione Granger continued to read, not bothering to turn around to face him. After he had recovered from his initial shock, Lucius cleared his throat slightly and decided to strike.

"As flattering as it is to be thought young enough to pass off as my son, I would like to point out that I am a separate entity altogether, Miss Granger," Lucius said, glad to see that Hermione was turning slowly with a look of horror on her face. This was what he had expected.

"L-Lucius Malfoy?" she asked shakily, her large brown eyes looking up at him with fear glimmering in them. Lucius had to admit that she was looking quite…grown up. That was the best way to put it. Despite her blatant fright, he thought she had become quite agreeable to look upon and womanhood suited her well…

"Miss Granger," he replied, hiding his appreciative looks with disdainful sneers. He was well-practised at hiding his thoughts and emotions. "I am glad to see you in good health."

"Back away, Malfoy, or I am going to curse you into oblivion," Hermione suddenly hissed, snapping back to her senses. Lucius gave her an amused look as he glanced down at her raised wand.

"Not feeling too friendly today, are we?" he said without a single falter in his smooth voice while Hermione was beginning to look incensed.

"Leave me alone, you horrid man! I don't need your insults to add to injury! Draco already took care of that!"

Lucius could see that Hermione wasn't very happy as her eyes were beginning to look a little watery. He made another mental note to reprimand Draco on his behaviour in society, especially to ladies, as his current manner was not becoming at all.

"Yes, I do know about the mess with you and Weasley. Relationships are fickle things," Lucius remarked while Hermione looked up at him, startled.

"How did you know? Are you a legilimens?" she asked frantically, a note of hysteria in her voice, causing Lucius to secretly smile.

"No; I just happen to have a big-mouthed son," he told her frankly. "One does not need to invade others' privacy so rudely when the information is given quite willingly by a third party."

"Oh, cripes!" Hermione yelped, causing Lucius to raise an eyebrow at her. "I am going to murder Draco when I next see him!"

"Don't you need my permission? And maybe even a blessing?" Lucius asked sternly, but the joke was lost on Hermione as she silently wrung her hands and looked like she'd been told Christmas wasn't coming this year. With a sigh, Lucius knew he had to intervene if he didn't want to witness a neurotic breakdown by one Miss Hermione Granger. It wouldn't look very good when the Aurors arrived if they found him standing over a screaming Hermione.

"Miss Granger." No response.

"Miss Granger!" No response.

"Miss Hermione Granger!"

Hermione slowly looked up at Lucius, sniffling slightly while there were faint tear tracks running down her cheeks. Lucius gave an impatient roll of his eyes as he offered her a pristine handkerchief embroidered with his initials. _Damn pureblood decorum!_ He had been saving that handkerchief for someone who might pocket it lovingly to place at a shrine dedicated to him, but his manners forced him to act, abiding by Pureblood Etiquette Act 57: Damsels in Distress.

"No tears, Miss Granger. We can't have the flood coming again so soon. It's already happened once and I don't feel like swimming today, despite the pleasant weather." _Good. He'd brought the conversation back to something as safe and reliable as the weather. Merlin bless England and the English impulse to discuss the weather!_

"Th-thank you," Hermione managed to hiccough as she took the proffered hankie and wiped away her tears. She was feeling completely stressed out with the devastating events in her and Ron's love life. She was so upset by their break-up, that she wasn't even feeling that bothered by the fact that she was accepting tokens of sympathy from her former enemy. Life just didn't seem to be able to get any worse.

"Now, Miss Granger," Lucius said once he was sure he wasn't about to drown in a flood of tears. "Perhaps we can come to an agreement."

"Wh-What kind of agreement?" Hermione asked, voice still wobbly from suppressed emotions.

"I'll allow you to hex my son for his appalling behaviour towards you in this distressing period of your life," Lucius noted that Hermione stopped sniffling and gave him a suspicious look at his considerate words, "if you help me with something I'm sure you excel at."

"Me?"

"Yes, you," Lucius confirmed, seeing the uncertainty in her eyes. She was really looking quite delectable in the modest, but short enough skirt and light summer blouse. Her slightly flushed face wasn't a bad thing either.

"Why me?"

"Because you're supposed to be clever."

"I didn't know Malfoys suffered from short-term memory," she said while Lucius looked offended.

"I beg your pardon?"

Hermione gave him a curious look and decided to elaborate her point by actions, seeing as her verbal remarks didn't seem to be illuminating anything to the blond wizard. Turning away from Lucius whose eyebrows had shot up so high at the voiced observation that they were almost disappearing into his hair, Hermione produced quill, ink and parchment with a reflex that could have made her a Seeker, in a game of book Quidditch where players chased books of great value. Lucius watched in shocked fascination as she scribbled something on the parchment and tore it off to hold up to him without a single word.

_Hermione G (Muggleborn) + Lucius M (pureblood) Apocalypse_

Lucius had to laugh, and Hermione seemed to think he truly had gone mad, but he didn't care. At the moment, it was all too funny to restrain.

"And they were saying I wouldn't shut up about blood differences!" he guffawed.

"Well, don't you think it's a bit weird?" Hermione asked in surprise.

"Your interesting equation or the fact that I've buried my prejudices?" he asked, still with a smile lingering.

"Your prejudices, of course! Aren't you supposed to be trying to kill me or something by now?"

"I'm an ex-murderer," Lucius said airily while Hermione just blanched. "But fear not, my prejudices are safely locked up in a chest like the one belonging to that batty Auror Moody, and has been thrown into the deepest part of the ocean," Lucius replied with a real smile. "So, getting back to the point for the millionth time; you still need to answer my question. Will you help me?"

"Erm… What do you need help with?" she asked, confused by his words. Lucius smirked, thinking about the endless innuendos that were forming at his mind at the last words.

"Think, Miss Granger. They say you are blessed with the gift of intelligence, even if Potter and Weasley are not. What do you do well? Hmm?" Lucius asked, voice low as he came towards her slightly and looked down at her with lowered eyelids. He could see that Hermione was blushing and was breathing rapidly. He smirked even more when she bit her lower lip in anxiousness and found himself inwardly laughing. She was looking very worried at what Lucius might be hinting at.

"What's your talent, Miss Granger?" he asked huskily, breathing the words into her ear as he leaned down and gently pressed his body against hers.

"Gah! I don't know, Mr Malfoy!" she squeaked while her hands tried to push him away, but Lucius was undoubtedly stronger than her and had no trouble in pressing her to the bookshelves behind her.

"_Think_, Miss Granger," he whispered seductively into her hair. She smelt so good. If he were a vampire (another notable rumour that had been circulating viciously in all circles of wizarding society), he might have devoured her on the spot. As it was, being a man, he simply enjoyed their closeness and the way he had complete power over her.

"Reading!" Hermione squealed as she felt something gently press against her lower stomach, and knowing that Malfoy didn't seem to the type to carry dynamite sticks in his front pocket, she blushed furiously. "Writing! Anything to do with books!"

"Bingo!" Lucius said, releasing her immediately and stepping away. "I wish I could say something rewarding like 'you have won a million Galleons', but I'm simply not _that_ generous," he said with a feigned sigh, making himself sound like some sort of saint who was confessing his weakness. "But since we got once thing straight, I think we can move on to point two," he said briskly while Hermione still looked flushed from their little physical moment.

"Point two?" she repeated faintly, looking like she was about to collapse. Lucius sighed as he waved his wand in her direction, causing her to flinch much to his amusement, and transfigured a book into a chair for her to sit on. Another pureblood reflex of his.

"As I was saying," he continued when Hermione was firmly seated on the luxurious piece of mahogany furniture, "I need your help in intellectual matters. Finding a word or two, to be precise."

"I'm not a dictionary!" she retorted with a scowl.

"Oh? That's what I thought I had been talking to for the last fifteen minutes. You do look awfully like a stack of parchment glued together and seeing as we're in magical bookshop, I guessed that talking dictionaries weren't that out of the ordinary," he remarked in mock sincerity. His smiled faded when he noticed Hermione looking tearful again, and with another long, especially loud sigh, he pulled out another handkerchief and handed it to her. He argued that it was completely shameful and humiliating for a person to have to use the same handkerchief twice in a matter of ten minutes. Especially if the first one was still wet.

"This is so embarrassing," Hermione admitted as she accept the second piece of expensive cloth and dabbed at her eyes. "I don't usually cry this much."

"Well, while you're recovering, I shall outline what is involved in helping me," he told her, seeing that she didn't look too worse for wear anymore. "I am trying to write something that summarises my life and declares my past deeds as a big mistake."

"How about 'ex-Death Eater whose been up to no good for the past twenty years has a sudden change of heart and decides to take up the jobs of professional handkerchief hander-outer and female harasser'?" Hermione offered sarcastically while Lucius gave an indignant sniff.

"I will thank you for your gratitude," he said haughtily as he took back his silk hankies and gave her a piercing look. "As for being a harasser; it was merely to test your mind under pressure."

"What? That's ridiculous!" Hermione exclaimed. "If I wanted to have my mind tested under pressure, I would have asked Ron to tell me the news all over again! Depending on how well I would react under pressure, he might be nothing but a pile of ash!"

"I must go and tell Weasley to announce his scandals to you again," Lucius muttered seriously while Hermione just stared at him, astounded. This sarcastic individual couldn't be the same as the one who had tried to kill everyone he walked into with rather terrifying eagerness. He just was being too _nice_.

"Um… Right…" she said, feeling too confused to say anything else. "You were saying about point two?"

"Apologies. I digressed. Coming back to the second point…"

Hermione simply watched the man turn into a professor as he began a small lecture on what was to be done but his words didn't seem to pierce her brain's perimeter. Had he always had such a nice backside? She could see it whenever he turned to gesture to some books. Oh, no. He was looking at her expectantly. She was glad he wasn't an established legilimens. The thought that had just crossed her mind involving Lucius closer than ever and robes having magically vanished was really quite inappropriate.

"What say you, Miss Granger?"

"I accept," she said without having a clue what she had just accepted. However, she reasoned that if agreement meant working in close proximity with Lucius _and_ hexing Draco, she was willing to give it a try.

"Excellent!" Lucius exclaimed as he made to leave. "I'll send you a formal invite as I don't think it would look to good if I were to throw you over my shoulder and drag you off kicking and screaming back to my Manor."

"Don't you?" Hermione replied in a coy voice she never knew existed in her. Lucius stopped in his movements to stare.

"Are you feeling alright, Miss Granger?" he asked with mild concern. As much as he was flattered at thinking she might want him, he had other ideas.

"I – I think you're quite attractive, Mr Malfoy," she stated, blushing furiously again while Lucius did a double-take. Hermione Granger was calling him attractive?

"Er – As obsequious as that is, Miss Granger, I do believe that decorum demands myself to leave what others have claimed." Lucius explained while Hermione looked astonished as he mentioned her being claimed.

"Others?"

"Indeed," he confirmed. When he realised that she was in shell-shock, he thought that since he was an utter sadist, he should drop another bomb and watch the effects on his victim. "Namely, my son. He has been brooding rather a lot recently, and has taken to speaking of you more than I care to mention."

"Draco? He _likes_ me?" Hermione asked, voicing the question as if she had never heard of a Draco liking anything besides himself.

"I'm rather certain about it. You don't come through forty-five years and not recognise that lovelorn look in someone else's eye," Lucius replied, knowing that he had seen that look in many an eye as he had always been quite desirable.

"Draco…" Hermione repeated in shock.

"Yes, Draco. Therefore, I propose that when you hex him, you leave his male organs intact, seeing as how he seems to think he's going to engage you in many unspeakable acts," Lucius said while Hermione's jaw dropped open.

"WHAT?"

"He'll probably propose within the month," Lucius announced airily while Hermione looked as if she might faint _again_. "I wouldn't be surprised since it is tradition to marry before you have – ahem – any carnal activities as per se."

"You must be joking!" Hermione gasped, clutching the wall of books for support while Lucius gave her another entertained look.

"I'm not known for my unending sense of humour, although you'll find Draco can be quite good with jokes once you get to know him," Lucius said kindly.

"But – but I didn't tell Draco that I even like him!"

"Well, I suppose he picked it up from men's intuition," Lucius replied with a shrug.

"Oh my god…" Hermione murmured, sitting back in her chair and looking positively dumbstruck.

"Here if you need me," Lucius replied with a wicked grin. He loved stitching up nasty pairings. It gave him…inspiration? His essay! That would be another forte to add to the list. _Bringer of love and harmony._

"Help me, Mr Malfoy…" Hermione murmured with a dazed look. "I don't even know Draco… I thought he hated me because of his taunts…"

"Take heart, my dear; it's just his way of courting, even if it is a tad unrefined," Lucius said, patting her on the shoulder. He was surprised when Hermione grabbed hold of his hand and squeezed it. He remained frozen to the spot as she slowly looked up at him, a mischievous smile forming.

"Seeing as I can choose how I perceive others' behaviour towards me, I think I'll give Draco's attention a pass," she said, a dangerous gleam in her eye. Lucius wondered what was on her mind as the smile was beginning to scare him. "And seeing how I do believe it's the fourth of July…" she said, rising from her seat so that they were standing close, bodies just touching through their clothes and still joined at the hands.

"Happy birthday, Lucius," she whispered as she went on tip toe and suddenly pressed her lips gently against his. Lucius tensed up in shock; was Hermione Granger kissing him?

He decided it had to be when he felt her tongue wander into his mouth and came to life under her prompting behaviour. He wrapped his arms around her and leaned them against the wall as they kissed and kissed and_ kissed_…

Maybe this birthday wasn't so bad.

Forty-five and still pulling witches twenty-six years younger than him? Not bad at all…

And in one glorious moment of her hands groping his most treasured bodily attributes, golden inspiration struck and he knew how to start that damned essay of his!

_Birthdays are the most beautiful days in human existence. It is the day when one is reminded of the miracle of life that brought them into being. It is therefore only acceptable that I write this on the anniversary of my birth, seeing how I am about to recall my life so far…_

* * *

Two birds with one stone indeed… His wife Hermione seemed to think the same as they often reminisced about that day five years ago when the spark between them had been lit. He didn't regret a thing as he wrote another letter to the minister about the laws on house-elf rights while his inspiration leaned over his shoulder and nibbled at his ear. When he leapt up quite suddenly and abandoned his writing to pursue activities elsewhere, it was not from a writer's block; that was for sure. If muses were as beautiful as inspirational, he wasn't going to hang about and write to the ministry of morons when there were other harmonies to be played.

_Sing heavenly muse!_


	9. Hermione Granger

**Ten Birthdays**

_(Hermione)_

**By WhiskeyTangoFoxtrot**

**1979**

It is her child's first day into the world. All she can see for a while is white . . . stars and spots and streamers in her eyes. She turns to her right and feels a pressure on her hand. In the distance, a blurry object smoothes the wet hair away from her face.

"She's here, Helen . . . you did it . . . she's beautiful . . ."

A gurgle escapes from her throat, and she smiles as her head lolls toward her left. A man in blue holds a wrapped bundle that cries and screams and keeps . . . _screaming_ and _crying_!

_Do they always cry like that?_

She takes the bundle in her limp arms and brings her close to her breast and the little creature's cries grow softer and softer and Helen suddenly finds her inner strength and holds her as tight as she dares.

"What do we name her, Helen?" he asks with soft voice and bated breath. There is a beat. He squeezes her hand. "Love?"

She swallows and smiles at this sweet little girl, nestling in her arms and in her bosom. The tiny creature reaches up as if to grasp at the hair that falls far past Helen's shoulders in great brown waves.

She remembers an old Shakespeare play her own father and mother used to read to her.

She remembers a name, so unusual and so pretty and it falls from her brain to her tongue and floats out of her mouth.

She knows it is the right name for her because this little girl is so different from anything she has ever seen and touched and held and the name that she wants to give her is so different from anything she has ever heard. . . .

"_Hermione_ . . ." she whispers into the baby's soft and new head and the baby knows she is saying something because the baby reaches up and touches her mouth as she murmurs the name.

**1991**

It is her twelfth birthday and it is the first one where she is alone. Feverishly attacking her parchment, she is desperate to master the Switching Spell before tomorrow and to go over once again over the Potions essay because Professor Snape will surely be looking for the answer that includes the various uses of belladonna and the strength in each of its forms — powder, liquid, and its untouched and undiluted natural state. . . .

"_Harry_!"

She huffs as that insufferable red headed boy, the one who rolls his eyes at her as she walks by him and his best friend, Harry Potter . . . _that _redheaded boy _insists_ on playing some game involving the common room's couch cushions and Exploding Snap cards _and_ a mess of downy feathers that make her sneeze.

"Excuse me," she tries in her most polite voice, "there are some of us who are trying to study here. _If_ you don't mind."

"_If you DON'T mind!_" the redhead says back to her in a mocking voice. "Harry, this one over here thinks the _common room _only belongs to _her_!"

"Eh whatever . . . c'mon Ron! Over here!" Harry shouts to his friend.

She turns back around as she shakes her head and reaches out to touch the old leather-bound copy of _A Winter's Tale_ that her Mum and Dad sent to her for her gift.

She misses them and thinks that it would be wonderful if her Mum was eleven or twelve years old and a witch because they could go to school together and be best friends and she would not be alone today.

But then she realizes the impossibility of that wish, since it would mean she would never have been born.

She is happy that she was born today twelve years ago and she smiles . . . even as her eyes water.

**1987**

It is her seventh birthday and she is crying as she waits for her parents to pick her up from school.

When they come, her mum asks, "You've got something hard and pink in your hair, Hermione . . . Hermione, sweetheart, what's wrong?"

She sniffs. "C-claudia Hitchens t-took the cupcake y-you gave me today f-for lunch and shoved it in my hair and m-my hair got messed up and s-some of the icing got st-stuck in m-my h-hair be-be-because it's so b-bushy—"

And she stops talking suddenly because she's crying so hard and because her mum's birthday cupcakes are so good and she does not get to eat them every day. She gets them only on very special occasions because her mum is a dentist and her mum always says her birthdays are so special so she makes sure that she gets a cupcake on that day . . . most times it's more than one. There are other days through the year that she gets them but the birthday cupcakes are special because she's the only one who gets them that day.

No one else.

Her mum pulls her into an embrace and smells of berries and cake and a subtle scent that reminds her of a . . . garden, perhaps?

She thinks that her mum must have been outside or there must be a rosebush around them somewhere. But she can't stop crying . . . and she really wants to.

Her mum takes hold of the hair with the pink icing and gently removes it and she cries into her mum's chest. She doesn't even feel her mum picking at her hair because she is so gentle and because she hums softly to her while she does it.

After her mum finishes cleaning her up, her mum kisses her on the top of her head and promises as many cupcakes as she wants when she gets home.

**1994**

It is her fifteenth birthday and before she makes her way downstairs to the common room, she looks at her new necklace in the mirror. Parvati sighs with approval. "Oh _Hermione_! It's beautiful."

"It's my mum's," she responds as she touches the antique gold locket with a gold rose on the front. "She promised it to me on my fifteenth birthday. She got it on _her_ fifteenth birthday and my grandmother got it on hers and my grandmother's _mother_ got it on hers . . ."

"Tradition, huh?"

She nods and waves goodbye to Parvati.

The moment she sees Harry and Ron, they run over to her and their arms are filled with enough Honeydukes sweets to give indigestion to Hagrid . . . which certainly says a lot.

"Happy Birthday, Hermione!" they say in perfect unison and she has to push her fingers to her lips to stop her chin from trembling, which is the first sign of potential tears in a Granger woman.

"My parents would have a _fit_ if they saw me anywhere near these sweets."

Ron shrugs and looks left and right. "I don't see them around. What they don't know and all . . ." and he smiles a lopsided grin at her and she's not sure why her stomach does an odd swoop but she chalks it up to looking at the sickly sweet pile in her two best friends' arms.

"C'mon then," Harry nudges toward the couch. "Hermione, we'll help you get through this. Well, we know Ron will at least!" and smiles warmly to her and she sits in between them with a pile of sweets all for her.

She pretends to not notice Ron's face growing red because she accidentally touches his arm but she continues to touch his arm because it makes interesting things happen in her tummy.

**1989**

It is her tenth birthday. She hears her dad and mum talking about the declining economy and she speaks, "But shouldn't we like our Prime Minister? Shouldn't we support her because she's a lady, like Mum and me?"

Her dad and mum look at each other and raise their eyebrows and grin and she decides she likes those little lopsided grins because they always seem much deeper than a broad smile.

"Hermione, dear. There are many reasons to think ill of Margaret Thatcher. We don't like her policies or how she's led Britain's economy all these years or what she says about what we should do overseas. But absolutely _none_ of this is because she's a woman."

"But shouldn't we encourage more women to come forward and be leaders like her?"

"Hermione, come here," and her dad pats the couch cushion next to him and puts his arm around her shoulders. "I agree with you, one-hundred percent. Just remember, anyone who puts himself or herself into a powerful position should avail themselves to criticism of their leadership. I would be saying the exact same things about Prime Minister Thatcher if she were _Michael_ Thatcher, and not Margaret."

She nods because she understands.

"Hermione, I'm so _proud_ of you, you do know that, right?"

She raises her eyebrow at her dad. "Why?"

"Because you ask us all these questions and you make us think. You are _very_ inquisitive, darling."

"When I grow up, I want to be a Prime Minister too. Or I want to work in politics or do something that's good. I think there are many ways to make this world better."

Her dad chuckles. "I think you can do it, too! I've no doubt that you are meant for big things, sweetheart. You've got this mind of yours that never stops working."

She looks down at her small hands. "Sometimes I think only you and mum think I'm smart."

"Oh darling, your teachers think you're smart. The other kids think you're smart too."

She looks back up at him and he's smiling at her, but it is a smile with so much love and admiration and it's not shallow but deep just like her love for him and her mum. "Sweetheart, don't you worry about other people. You _need_ to celebrate your own intelligence . . . your brains. You _are_ so _very_ _smart_, Hermione. And you're going to find others that will respect your brilliance. And you will call them your friends. You just make darn sure that your friends appreciate you for what's in here," and he points to her head, "as well as what's in here," and he points to her chest. "And you make _twice_ as sure that the special bloke in your life appreciates both one-hundred fold."

And she hugs him and he hugs her as he whispers, "Happy Birthday, my special girl," into her bushy hair.

**1997**

It is her eighteenth birthday and she is without her family. For the past six years, she has been away from her mum and dad for her birthday.

But this time, her mum and dad do not even know her.

She can remember their faces, their voices, their scents . . . and they don't even know that they have a daughter.

It is necessary, though.

It is necessary because their lives are in danger.

It is necessary because they must find the bits and pieces of a shattered soul to end the suffering.

But she wishes that today she could have a cupcake or a sweet and hugs and kisses from her mum and dad . . .

"Knut for your thoughts?"

She hears Ron's deep voice and feels Ron sit beside her.

She smiles, but she is sad.

"You all right?"

She shrugs because it is easier than talking, but it does not stop the tears from forming in her eyes.

She sees Ron and can tell he's a bit scared at the thought of her crying but he remains right where he is. He seems more tired and moody lately, and she strongly suspects that the blasted locket has everything to do with it.

However, she notices he is not wearing it now. She notices his eyes are that brilliant and bright, steely blue that she loves so very much and his eyes dance in the moonlight.

It makes her so happy to watch his eyes, because it looks like he is laughing and he is happy again.

Ron reaches out and takes hold of her hand. This surprises her so much that she can't stop a small _gasp!_ from escaping her mouth.

"Hap-happy birthday, Hermione."

She lets herself beam and her tears start to fall. "You remember?"

"'Course I remember. September nineteenth, just like every year." He smiles at her and she smiles back and she feels so warm.

"Hey, I didn't get you anything this year. Sorry."

She looks at him with wide and disbelieving eyes. "_Sorry_? Ron, we're on the run! The three of us are Public Enemy Number One. Just being alive right now is a gift I'm willing to take over anything else." She thinks for a moment. "Well, that and making sure our families are safe and sound." And she returns to looking out at the woods beyond them.

Ron smiles and nods. "Well, I was wondering. I'd still like give you something for today. I was sorta thinking I could tell you some of the good things I think about you."

She can't say a word. She knows she's staring at him, but she feels completely gobsmacked! "W-wh-what? What d'you mean, you, er . . . th-think about me?" And she curses her rapidly beating heart.

Ron is blushing and it is adorable but she sits in silence for a moment to wait for him to speak. "Well, y'know . . . we haven't always been on the best terms over the years, and I just, I wanted to . . . um . . . compliment you. As a gift for you . . . O-on your birthday."

She closes her mouth, which was gaping wide open and again sits still for a moment. Ron takes a deep breath and begins talking. "I think you're really cool." She stifles a laugh because she sees he is serious and is struggling with what he wants to say. "I-I mean . . . well, when I say you're cool . . . I really think that your brain is really pretty amazing. I sometimes give you grief about it, but I want you to know that it's cool you're . . . uh . . . yeah."

She sees Ron swallow and try to gather his thoughts again with a couple of breaths.

He licks his lips. "I like that you're smart, Hermione. I tease you about it and I like that you always have something to say back to me. You might have some crazy ideas about the world, but you're really enthusiastic about it and it's really you wanting to make things better and that's really cool."

Ron rubs his forehead and she notices his face is as red as his hair and she doesn't want to cry but — _goddess_! — her brain and heart are failing at stopping her tears.

"I really like your hair too." At this, he blushes violently. "W-wh-what I mean to say is that . . . I like it all down and crazy. Oh, Godric! This sucks." He pushes out his cheeks and shuts his eyes very tight. "I think I like your hair better like this, when you kind of let it all go. I like it when you pull it up, but it's better like this." He smiles awkwardly and she responds in kind and she hopes her smile is as warm and lovely as he is making her feel right now.

"I like how you're always worried about everyone else, especially me . . . er, _Harry_ and me. I like how you get along with my family. I really like that you're into school and you help us with our work—"

She cocks her head and gives him and amused smirk. "I think there've been a couple of times that I've actually _done_ your work for the two of you."

And Ron chuckles softly. "Yeah . . . I reckon you have." Ron swallows. "But I really do think that . . . I think you're . . . um . . ." And he looks at her and she looks at him and it's another moment that they are having _right_ _now _and she wants him to draw closer to her and she wants to kiss him and him to kiss her—

"_HAPPY BIRTHDAY, HERMIONE!_"

And the moment is gone.

She looks over and sees Harry, holding three pieces of bread with strawberry jam smothered on top and a bunch of wildflowers in his hand.

She marvels at the roughly put-together birthday meal and presents and thought that she would never, in her entire life, know of two greater friends than Harry and Ron.

"Ron's idea, of course," Harry says with a roll of his eyes and a smile. He winked at Hermione. "Happy Birthday."

She chortles at Harry and she looks at her two friends and cries tears of total and complete happiness, because it is no matter that death may be approaching.

As long as she is with them, she is alive and she is happy and she is whole.

**2001**

It is her twenty-second birthday and she feels Ron's arm around her waist as he guides her into the room.

She is in disbelief that the three of them could defeat a great evil and yet she is powerless to save her own mum.

Leaning over the bed, she kisses the sleeping form on her cold, slightly yellowed forehead.

Her mum wakes up.

"Her-hermione?"

"Hi mum." She reaches for her mum's now _very_ thin hand and squeezes it gently.

"Hermione, it's your birthday—"

"Mum . . ." she says in a whispery voice. "There's nowhere I'd rather be."

Her mum shakes her hand a bit. "I'm afraid I didn't make you anything for today. Just . . . give . . . me . . . one . . . moment." Her mum speaks in between soft grunts, and she struggles to lift herself up off of her hospital bed currently occupying the small bedroom. She puts her arms gently on her mum's shoulders so the older woman cannot get up.

"Mum, really. I can make us all cupcakes. _You_ should rest."

"This is all too much fuss. I don't _need_ my pancreas to bake . . ."

"No, but your pancreas _needs_ you to _rest_."

Her mum backs off and looks at her with a sad smile. "Hello Ron," she says while continuing to look at her daughter with that smile on her face.

"Hi, Mrs. Granger—"

"Ron, do _not_ 'Mrs.' me . . . it's Helen, all right? _Helen_."

She hears Ron chuckle. "I'll . . . I'll try to remember, er . . . Helen."

"Or, you _can _call me 'Hells' . . . my nickname back in the day," her mum says to her with amusement and a wink. She smiles back.

Her mum raises her head a tiny bit. "I smell . . . flowers?"

She pulls out the bouquet. "Your favorite, Mum."

And her mum smiles a huge smile and it is a smile that fills her mum's thin face and illuminates the room. "Roses. Hermione, these are beautiful."

She nods. "Molly found an old Perma-Watering Vase in her attic last week. Thought it would look lovely here."

She lets her mum raise her hands to gently touch the roses and she watches her mum sniff the blossoms. She fancies that she can see their sweet, floral scent swirling in the air in curlicues all around the room and surrounding them with their perfume.

"Does that mean that I'll never have to put water in the vase?" her mum asks.

She nods.

"Well," her mum laughs, softly and sadly, "I guess that'll be good . . . for later, y'know."

And she knows that her mum means when her "medicine" makes her far too weak to walk.

And she blinks back tears and smiles and takes a seat by her mum and Ron takes a seat by her and they talk about an endless amount of everything.

**1988**

It is her ninth birthday and it is a Saturday. Although she is sad that she does not have school, she is happy because she can already smell the sweet scent of cake and she knows her mum is up and if she runs really fast downstairs, she'll get the first one right out of the oven. . . .

She stops just as she turns into the kitchen, and she hopes her mum and dad cannot see her. Because she knows she's intruding on a lovely, but private, moment between her parents.

She watches her mum taking a dollop of pink royal icing out of the bowl and her mum plops the glop right on her father's nose. He laughs and he pulls her toward him and wipes the frosting back onto her face. She laughs and it comes from her guts and it is loud and there is nothing dainty about it.

But it doesn't need to be because it is real and beautiful.

Her dad has his hands around her waist and he pulls her close to him. He places a rose behind her ear and kisses her right on her mouth.

She makes a birthday wish that, someday, she will marry a man that can make her as happy as her dad makes her mum.

**2012**

It is her thirty-third birthday, and—

"Rose! Do _not. _Put. The icing. On. Your. _Brother_."

"But _M-u-u-u-m_! He started it—"

"And I'm finishing it. Now, put down the spoon!"

She stares at Rose and Hugo, but mostly Rose as she is about to make a _royal _mess with the royal icing and she is trying desperately not to laugh because _that _would be an invitation for even more chaos.

She has her hands on her hips, and is patiently waiting . . .

And she sees Ron striding toward their two children. He swoops down and picks up both of them, one under each arm. Her daughter holds the wooden spoon limply, as if she is trying to distance herself from the incriminating object before she gets into any more trouble.

Ron stops right in front of her . . .

"Ron?" she asks cautiously, because Ron has that _gleam_ in his eyes.

The same gleam that tells her he's about to—

"_Now_!_ Rose_! _Hugo_!"

And she squeaks and shouts because Rose takes the icing off the spoon and smears it all over her face in a sweet, pink mess. Hugo takes the batter and the icing still being mixed and gets it all in her hair and the blouse she wears and Ron . . . of course, _Ronald_ would do this . . . Ron smears even more batter into her face and laughs and laughs and laughs.

So, of course, she does the only thing she can do . . .

She takes a huge handful of batter and icing and, silently praising herself for having the foresight to have bought extra ingredients, she throws the gloop directly at Ron's face.

His shocked expression delights her. She stares at him with mischievous eyes and a mischievous grin.

"_Oh_! O-o-oh-h-ohohoho!" he chortles. "You're in for it now, Mrs. Weasley!"

"I can take _all _three of you, you do know that, _right_?" And she waves her wand and, immediately, three globs of batter and icing Hover in the air.

"Run kids! _Save yourselves_!" Ron yells out in mock terror. And Rose and Hugo are screaming in delight as they scurry away from her "Batter Bombs".

And they are yelling and screaming and laughing so loud, that they don't even hear—

'When we said we wanted cupcakes for your birthday, Hermione, we didn't mean for you lot to be wearing 'em!"

And Harry and Ginny and their kids barely miss the onslaught of uncooked cake and icing hurtling in their general direction.

**2006**

It is her twenty-seventh birthday, and she is _huge_!

Big.

Gin_-_or-mous.

Whale-like.

She is relaxing because it is a weekend and even though she's got a million files to organise, she just doesn't want to get up. Instead, she puts her hand on her belly and she can feel a couple of little kicks.

She smiles. She smiles as big as her belly.

"How's she doing?" She hears her husband's voice, bright and happy and inquisitive. Ever since they found out, he always makes a point to ask how _she_ is doing.

"She's quite active today. Somebody must've told her there's a marathon or something."

"How're _you_ doing?"

"I'm just . . . _ready_." It's really the only thing she can say that's appropriate.

Ron brings over a tray of breakfast goodies and pumpkin juice (fortified specifically for pregnant witches), and he lies down next to her, the food on the table next to her side of the bed. They each have a pastry and he puts his head gently on her tummy and munches away with a smile on his face.

She runs her hand through his hair and hums pleasantly.

"Happy Birthday, Hermione."

She grins. "Thank you. I plan . . . on doing absolutely nothing today."

"Hear hear," Ron adds, lazily. He stretches out his long legs and wraps his arms around her waist.

There is a pleasant lull, where no words pass between them and time pauses. This is the one thing she loves about being married to Ron; sometimes, no sense of urgency is a good thing.

He certainly makes sure that she feels no stress at all . . . or as little stress as possible.

After a few moments, though, the thoughts she had been having for a while now returns. And, suddenly, she feels the need to talk about it . . .

"I've been thinking—" she starts.

"_What_? You? _Really_?!"

Prat.

"Yes, I have," she says primly, ignoring his amused snorting. She grins. "I've been thinking about names."

Ron sits up and looks at her and his blue eyes are sparkling and happy, but he keeps his face very calm. "Really?"

She nods. "And, I think I'd like to name her . . . w-well, I mean, you _should_ agree too . . . It's . . . it's a huge decision for the both of us to make . . . I don't want you thinking—"

"Hermione," Ron says firmly and he holds a hand up to quiet her and he smiles. "What would you like to name her?" he asks her quietly.

She looks at him, and a small smile plays on her lips. "Rose."

Ron looks at her for a moment and shows no response. "It's . . . was . . . her favorite flower, wasn't it?"

She nods and she can, once again, feel tears welling up in he eyes.

"I-I mean . . . it would feel like she's still here . . . Honestly, she never really liked the name 'Helen'." She looks at Ron and a couple of tears trickle down her face. "She loves . . . loved," she corrects herself, and her husband has his arm around her in a comforting embrace, "she loved the flower so much. . . . Thought it had the prettiest bloom, the sweetest fragrance . . . she said it was the queen of all the flowers . . . that there're none better or brighter."

Ron kisses her forehead. "Rose . . . _Rose,_" he says with a languid voice. "Rose Weasley . . . I like it . . ." he whispers into her hair, "It's brilliant."

And she falls more into his comforting embrace and she lets herself cry just a little bit longer but no more than a few minutes.

And she thinks her mum would be . . . _is_ . . . watching this . . . the two of them . . . almost three . . . together . . . And she is smiling.

Submit Review Report Possible Abuse Add Story to Favorites Add Story to Story Alert Add Author to Favorites Add Author to Author Alert Add Story to C2 Archive


	10. Victoire Weasley

**The Way It's Supposed to Be**

_(Victoire)_

**By Realmer06**

The first birthday she can remember, she's turning three and Uncle George is leaving. She can't understand why because Maman only just went to get the cake and they haven't opened presents yet or played hardly any games, but he's leaving all the same and he looks really upset and just keeps saying he can't, but he won't say what he can't do. Then his girlfriend Angelina is running after him and suddenly there are two less people at her party.

Uncle George doesn't come for her birthday again.

The next birthday, she's four and Maman and Daddy are telling her it's going to be a special day with just the three of them and a big party with the family later, and even though there's still cake and presents, she knows that it's not the way it's supposed to be.

Then she's five and six and seven and Uncle George is never there and Uncle Harry and Uncle Ron and Aunt Ginny and Aunt Hermione always have to come late or leave early, and somehow, she gets the feeling that's not the way it's supposed to be, either.

It's the year she turns eight that she really starts to figure out that there's something different about her birthday. Because she has a sister now. And cousins. And she goes to all their birthdays and no one comes late or leaves early and Uncle George is there and everyone's happy, smiling and laughing, and _that's_ the way it's supposed to be, but it's never like that for her. That's the year she starts to hate her birthday.

Then she's turning nine and comparing her party to her cousin James' last month and her sister's the month before that, and she knows it's not the same. Because even though everyone's smiling and laughing, she can tell it's just in the way that sad people do when they're trying to pretend to be happy.

And when they play Pin the Hippogriff and Hunt the Thimble and Blind Wizards' Run, she watches the grown-ups whisper to each other, frowning, when they think no one is looking. And when Maman brings out the birthday crown, woven of daisies and forget-me-nots and ivy and shining with fairy dust, she watches uncles check pocket watches and look restless when they think no one can see. And when everyone's singing and Grandma's bringing out the cake, she watches Uncle Harry pull her daddy aside and whisper to him, and she watches her daddy sigh and nod and she watches her uncle leave. But worst of all, she watches her daddy not sing the birthday song and not even notice that she's watching him.

Everything she sees just makes her angrier and angrier, and when Grandma puts the cake in front of her, all white and pink and spun-sugar roses, she's hot and shaking and sure she's about to explode with it all, and no one even notices.

The anger's like a living, actual something that she can _feel_ pooling up inside her fists and gathering right behind her eyes, all hot and itchy until she can't see anything but it and the cake.

And then she can't take it anymore, and with a scream that is half a sob, she cuts off the end of the song and just lets everything fly out of her, exploding around her.

She stands there, breathing hard, tears on her cheeks and her face red, and when she can see again, she sees that there is no more cake, just a place where it might have been and a whole lot of pink and white and once-spun-sugar roses everywhere else.

And she knows she did that, and she's _glad_, fiercely glad. She's ruined the party for everyone else just like they've ruined it for her, every year, and it _serves them right_.

When she looks up from where the cake had been, angry tears still in her eyes because the itchiness still isn't gone, it's her daddy she sees first, just staring at her. She glares right back at him because this is _his_ fault, all his.

And then everything hits her, and she turns on her heel and runs, sobbing, away from them all and her horrible birthday.

It's her daddy who finds her later, sitting with her knees drawn up to her chest on a rock by the water. She looks away when she sees him coming, and she ignores him even when he sits beside her on the rock, his long legs dangling over the side.

She wants him to know how angry she is, and she wants to hurt him as much as she's been hurt today, but she also wants answers, and she just wants everyone to stop pretending, and in the end, it's that that wins out.

"Why does everyone hate my birthday?" she finally demands of him. He tries to tell her that they don't, but she's tired of being lied to. "Yes, they do!" she yells over him, not caring that she's not supposed to talk back. "Everybody's just pretending to be happy and Uncle Harry and Uncle Ron and Aunt Ginny and Aunt Hermione _never_ stay the whole time, and Uncle George never comes at _all_, and that's not the way it's supposed to be! It's not like that on anyone else's birthday, so just tell me _why_!"

Her daddy doesn't say anything for a long time, but when he finally does, he begins to tell her of a bad man who lived before she was born. He tells her how the bad man hurt and killed a lot of people, and how he wanted to take control of the whole world, and all the horrible things he was willing to do to get that control.

He tells her about her Uncle Harry and how many times he fought the bad man. He tells her how Uncle Harry and Uncle Ron and Aunt Hermione disappeared for a year on a secret mission to weaken the bad man, and how they came back to fight him one last time. He tells her about the big battle that happened when they came back, how a lot of people were hurt trying to stop the bad man and how Uncle Harry finally made him go away forever.

"So every year, they have a big ceremony, to celebrate what Uncle Harry did, and to remember all the people who fought and didn't make it. And that day is today because you were born one year after that big fight."

"But that doesn't tell me why everyone's always so sad!" she insists. Her daddy sighs before he answers.

"It isn't because of you or your birthday, sweetheart," he tells her. "It's because one of the people who didn't make it was Uncle George's twin. His name was Fred. He was my brother and Grandma's son and everyone's friend, and we lost him that day."

"The bad man killed him?" she asks, and he nods.

"He died in the big fight, yes."

She considers all this carefully for a moment or two. When her daddy speaks again, it's very softly, to tell her that, if she wants, she doesn't have to have her birthday on this day. "We can celebrate it on another day, a day that might be easier. A day that won't be hard for Uncle George or Grandma or you or anyone else. But before you chose, I think you should know how you got your name."

He tells her that her name means victory, that he and Maman chose her name to focus not on what had happened a year before her birth, but to focus on the future and what could happen now. "Maman and I never wanted your birthday to be a sad day," he tells her. "It was always supposed to be more than that."

She is quiet for a long time, looking out at the water. Then, without looking at him, in a voice so soft it almost blends in to the wind over the waves, she says, "Can we go?"

"Go where?"

She turns her head and looks up at him then, her blue eyes dark and serious. "To the ceremony."

If he is surprised by her request, he doesn't show it. He simply takes her by the hand and walks her back up to the house to tell Maman where they're going, and then they go. She clings tightly around his middle while he Apparates them there, to a big golden hall full of more people than she ever knew existed.

And the ceremony has already almost started, so they slip in and sit in the very back row, and while they sit there, waiting, her daddy whispers to her about all the people there and about the long, long wall that's at one end of the hall. He tells her that everyone who died in the fights with the bad man has their name up there, somewhere, so that no one will forget them.

And then people begin to talk, and she sits as tall as she can and folds her hands in her lap and listens hard. She listens to the Minister talk about the bad times and the big fight and the ten years and everything that has happened since. She listens while other people she doesn't know talk about how much that day meant. She listens as more people talk about the names on the wall.

And when her Uncle Harry stands up in front of everyone and the whole hall gets the quietest it's been, she listens hardest of all. Her Uncle Harry talks about sacrifice and celebration, about forgiving and remembering and moving on. And then he tells everyone about his niece whose birthday is today. He tells them that the big fight was for her, so that her birthday and the birthdays of all the other kids in the world didn't have to be sad and dark. He talks about the future and the way the world should be now.

And as she sits and listens to him as he stands there and talks about her in front of everyone, she starts feeling really full inside and her daddy squeezes her hand tight, and she wonders if anyone knows that she's the girl Uncle Harry was talking about.

And then Uncle Harry's done talking and people are walking forward and leaving flowers against the wall. She looks up at her daddy, and she doesn't even need to ask. He nods and she slips her hand from his and slides out of her chair and begins to walk.

Walking to the wall seems to take forever, and all she can hear is the click of her fancy shoes on the hard, shiny floor, even though the hall is full of people talking quietly. The closer she gets to the wall, the bigger it seems to get, until she is standing right in front of it and it seems to go on forever.

And suddenly, she's the only one in that hall, alone with the wall and all those names. She looks up at it and she can see her face reflected back at her, broken apart by the letters and words carved into the stone. She feels smaller in that moment then she can ever remember feeling.

With a deep breath, she forces herself to turn to the right and walk along the length of the wall, searching for the name she wants. She moves slowly, eyes never leaving the wall, until she reaches the part of the wall that bears a name like hers.

His name is right at her eyes, and as she reads it, she lets out the smallest of sighs. Almost without knowing it, she reaches up with her hand and brushes her fingertips over the letters even as she reads the words to herself, her lips moving silently along.

_Frederick Gideon Weasley_

_April 1, 1978 - May 2, 1998_

_A Loving Son, A Loyal Friend, A Better Half _

Without taking her eyes from his name, she slowly reaches up and removes the birthday crown she is still wearing. Then she kneels and places it against the base of the wall, and when she straightens, the fairy dust outlining the leaves of ivy shines up at her. She leans close to the wall then, to her uncle's name on the stone, and whispers, "I want to share my birthday with you."

The next year, she's turning ten. What she remembers about her tenth birthday is that Uncle Harry and Uncle Ron and Aunt Ginny and Aunt Hermione come early to help set up the party. She remembers that no one leaves early and the only people who show up late are Uncle George and his son, Fred, smelling like smoke because Fred had exploded all the fireworks in the back of the shop. She remembers that when Grandma brings out the cake, all pink and white and spun-sugar roses, everyone sings the birthday song. She remembers that everyone is smiling and laughing and really, _really_ happy. But what she remembers most is that when the party is over, they all go to the golden hall and walk up to the wall and, with her Uncle George's hand on her shoulder, she leaves her birthday crown again at its base.

The day that she turns ten, she goes to sleep knowing that finally, for the first time, her birthday is what it is supposed to be.


	11. Albus Potter

**Albus Potter and the Misspent Youth**

_(Albus Severus)_

**By respitechristopher**

I suppose there are some folks who've forgotten their fathers' birthdays. Not me. No, I'm blessed to have a father with a bloody _bank holiday_ in honor of his birthday. Big effing deal, too. Uncle Percy tried to tone down the Ministry celebrations when he was made Minister two years ago (figured it would be unseemly to go about lauding one's own brother-in-law), but the public wouldn't have it. Looks as though the fine art of worshipping my father is here to stay. Merlin, but you should have seen it on Unity Day this May. It was the 25th anniversary of his taking down Old Tom Riddle and they stopped the whole bloody world. Heads of state from all over came by to congratulate him, and Uncle Percy had the whole family up to the state dinner. The whole bleeding family. 25 Weasleys and Potters mingled with the families of the French, Bulgarian, Romanian, American, German, Japanese, and every Commonwealth country's minister or president and their families. I still think we outnumbered them. Oh, but you should have seen cousin Dominique all over President DeNîmes's boy. Merlin, but she should have been a Slytherin. I was so proud, I tell you. I digress, of course.

Today the crowd is different. First of all, the Office of the Minister isn't heading up the gala, it's being hosted by the Auror Corps. So Dad's getting feted by his own people; which is nice. Secondly, it's all of Mum and Dad's old DA friends – that super-secret organization that Aunt Hermione came up with back in the war. So it'll be wartime stories until dawn. Again. Mum told me I should bring a date, because this is a rather important society event. I asked Rose to bring Scorpius, mostly to have someone to hang out with besides Rose, but he didn't want to come, not even as my date. "If not for me or Rose, at least do it for the press, Scorpius" didn't go down so well, either. He says he feels like someone's just waiting for him to start ripping off AKs every time he comes to one of our DA-crowd gatherings. Can't say that I blame him. Ever since I got sorted into Slytherin, I've felt the same way. But the tabloid press will be ever so miffed not to have "The Mercurial Trio" together for some pictures. Yes, that's me flipping the cameraman the bird in last month's _MagicPeople_. Berk wasn't supposed to be on school grounds, anyway. Mum doesn't know that Rose figured out a way to _silencio_ a howler.

Rose and I have been the best of friends since we were in nappies. We're almost exactly the same age (and if I hear one more story of how she got her name, I'm going to be violently ill) and our parents are, as you're quite aware, inseparable, so we've spent more time together than most siblings, and from about the age of eight, that time has been devoted to cataloguing the myriad reasons _not_ to be born to members of the Golden Trio. Our siblings developed differently, of course. James plays Quidditch like Mum. Lily's taking all of the OWLs needed to be an Auror like Dad. Hugo devotes himself to rights causes, like Aunt Hermione. They sat in rapturous wonder for years listening to stories of how our parents saved the effing world. Rose and I would develop our exploding snap skills and hope that the stories would stop before they all got too tired patting each other on the back to serve dessert.

"The Mercurial Trio" started much like "The Golden Trio," minus the frog. Coming into Platform 9 ¾, I was dead scared to try anything outside of what my parents had done at Hogwarts. James had done a bang-up job of convincing me that were I sorted anywhere other than Gryffindor, my days as a Potter would be over, and I could kiss the life of a child of a celebrity goodbye. Sweet, caring brother I have. But at the 11th hour, doing his patented 'saving people thing,' Dad disabused me of this notion and made sure I knew I was a Potter regardless of house. So, after Mum and Dad put Rose and I on the train, and we couldn't see our parents anymore, we found ourselves a compartment where we hoped we wouldn't get bothered by anyone looking to 'Meet a Potter' or sign their bloody _Teen Witch Monthly_. That's James on this month's cover, looking ever-so GQ in his Puddlemere kit, by the way. Berk. But, as I was saying… Rose and I were getting some quality time when we see Scorpius walk into the car, looking quite lost, the poor dear. Now, Scorpius had been pointed out to us on the platform as _the person_ we ought not make friends with. Uncle Ron may as well have introduced us himself. Anyhow, Rose convinced Scorpius to come into the compartment, and the three of us started talking. For the first ten or so minutes of our friendship it was difficult trying to get him to say much of anything. But as he could see that we truly invited him in only to cheese off our parents, he bowed to our noble aim. We began to plot our takeover of Hogwarts right then and there, you see, and it has worked out better than any of us could have imagined. Professors kiss our arses and let us flaunt whatever rules we find inconvenient at any given moment. Well, Neville doesn't, but that's because he's known us since we were born. Oh dear, I'm digressing again.

Anyway, using the information my dad gave me on the platform about how to get sorted into the house I wanted, the three of us planned our houses for maximum effect. Scorpius had to go into Ravenclaw, as it would have pleased his father too much had he been a Slytherin like me. Rose was only going to be able to go Ravenclaw or Gryffindor, so she had to go Ravenclaw, too. (If you don't understand why Gryffindor was a bad choice for my cousin, hit the backspace key twice and go to a fluffy little story about my grandparents and their wacky friends. Now.). As for me, as anxious as I had been on the platform about being sorted into the House of the Serpent, I began to realize what an asset it would be for us to have a Slytherin in our group. After all, we don't make friends and enemies, we make allies and adversaries. And as a Potter, and the spitting image of the Boy Who Lived himself, I certainly wasn't going to make too many adversaries. They'd all be afraid of my _expelliarmus_. Once I realized that my parents weren't going to disown me, and I would get to keep my influential name, it became a possibility, and when it got time to strategize, it became clear who the Slytherin should be.

Armed with the knowledge of how our sorting was going to wind up, the three of us rather strutted off of the train, onto the boats, and into the Great Hall. Scorpius was sorted first, and when he went into Ravenclaw the place went deadly quiet. It took him a moment to get his bearings, but we had anticipated this, and he raised his head and took a seat at the end of the table, saving one for Rose. When I was sorted into Slytherin though, I thought all hell would break loose. Students were screaming that the hat had gone mental. Poor James looked as though it was all his fault. I suppose it was mere coincidence that I smiled all the way to my seat. Rose's sorting was rather anti-climactic after that, and Ravenclaw wasn't such a surprise to anyone, as her mum's braininess was well documented. Somehow after my sitting down with the Snakes, it wasn't such a big deal that she was the first Weasley ever not to be sorted Gryffindor.

Oh. Speaking of Rose, she's finally here to help me get ready.

"Albus, _darling_, do you have to wear the green robes tonight? You know my dad's just going to lecture you about _family_ or some other such rot," Rose says as she kisses my cheeks in greeting. I return the greeting, of course.

"But Rose, sweets, they match my eyes ever-so perfectly, and as the first Slytherin born to the house of Potter in, oh, _ever_, it is my duty to represent the good name of Salazar as best I can. Now be a dear and lend me your eyeliner." She does, and I take a moment to apply it. She takes that moment to ponder, which can hurt in large doses.

"Oh, sweet Rowena. Luna and Rolf Scamander are coming to this thing, aren't they? Do you think Rolf is going to bring his guitar? Damnit, I think I'm just going to make up some female ailment and convince Dad I can't go. You understand, don't you darling?" I look up from my mirror.

"What? And leave me to deal with the whole bloody Golden Generation by myself? Merlin's balls, woman, do you want me to have to hang out with _James_? Or my irrepressively perky sister?"

"There's always Hugo."

"Poor kid always looks like he's about to cry. He's okay as far as Gryffs go, but I'm so sick of his bloody causes. And don't try to sell me on Uncle George's kids, either. Goofy and Goofina just don't make it for me as proper companionship for the evening."

"Why didn't you bring a date like your mum asked?"

"Ha. Why didn't you?"

Of course we both knew that our answers were identical. Either of us could have picked up the Hogwarts directory, picked out two names at random, and gotten ourselves very, very grateful dates for the evening. Dates who would have either clung onto us for dear life, thinking they could _marry_ well (oh sweet Merlin, no), or would have run as soon as they saw the first tabloid at the grocers with their picture waving back. Scorpius is the only one I know with a last name that isn't Potter or Weasley to have dealt with that effectively. He flips the bastards the bird like Rose and I do.

"I did, though," she says with a smirk. And on cue in walks Scorpius.

"Albus, _darling_," he says with affect, and he kisses me on both cheeks. I, of course, return the greeting.

"Scorpius, _do_ tell me you two worked out that grand entrance before hand. That was much too fabulous to have just worked out by some insipid Gryffindoresque luck."

Scorpius kissed Rose firmly on the lips and held her arms out, admiring her smart frock.

"Darling, you look marvelous in teal. I've told you that a dozen times – so glad to see you take my fashion advice for once. And Albus, of course we worked that out. We used protean charmed knuts, and I flooed over when she said she got here. After that it was just a matter of waiting outside the door for my cue."

Rose and Scorpius are inseparable, and they have been since the train. At Hogwarts, there are those who are convinced Scorpius is as gay as they come and Rose has been trying to 'convert' him, and there are those who are convinced that he and Rose have just wanted to get together for years but don't know how to tell each other. The latter group almost all have autographed copies of _Ron and Hermione: The Golden Trio's Pair_ at home. No, there is no one who just doesn't care. This is, of course, Scorpius Malfoy we're talking about. Yes, I know the answer. And no, I'm not telling. Ha. Like you won't make up your own story about it anyway.

After a bit of prater, we head downstairs arm in arm in arm where Mum has thrown a bit of a 'family and friends only' party for Dad. There's the obligatory cake in the shape of a snitch (ye gods, all we need is more bloody 'youngest seeker in three millennia' stories), there's some singing, and there are presents. He loves my cape-clasp with the Auror Corps shield design, as well as Scorpius's redwood desktop wand caddy and Rose's red and gold quill set. Mum makes some sickeningly sweet reference to 'getting his present later', which sends Uncle Ron mental, as always. Honestly, Uncle Ron. The joke was wearisome the first time, it became useless about the same time James became useless (which is to say, when James was born), and now it's gone well past its sell-by date.

Funny thing happens to the three of us at these gatherings. As much as we like to make an entrance, the Mercurial Trio rather goes our separate ways at these things, leaving us at the mercy of whatever DA member feels it's their turn to act _in loco parentis_ at any given moment. None of us like being without our shields, it's just that we're incapable of stopping this phenomenon. You want to be nice, you want to pay attention to what actually are stories of true importance in our world, because these are quite powerful people, regardless of how unassuming their natures. So we each retreat into our shells, knowing we can dish the dirt when it's all over and it's just the three of us.

Luna and Rolf have shown up with their two rugrats, as have Neville and Hannah. But it's Luna who has me cornered at present.

"Albus, you look quite dashing this evening. How are you doing? Looking forward to seventh year?"

I give her a peck on the cheek in response to her warm hug and greeting.

"Oh, I'm doing well Luna. Thanks for asking. Yes, seventh year is almost here, isn't it? NEWTs are right around the corner, I suppose."

"How many NEWTs will you sit then, Albus?"

"Seven, actually."

"Goodness, dear. Any idea what you'll be doing once you leave Hogwarts?"

Ugh. I do so hate that question. No, I won't be playing Quidditch like Mum and James, and no, I won't be following Dad into the Auror Corps like Lily wants to. Could be arsed to take up causes like Aunt Hermione, and I certainly didn't inherit Uncle Ron's and Uncle George's head for business. Mostly I'd like to never have to answer that question again. But as one can't make much of a living simply being fabulously intelligent and witty, I'm sure it's going to come up in conversation again. So, here's my standard answer:

"I'm sure the right opportunity will present itself, Luna. But I honestly don't know at present what that might be." Cue Golden Generation's pitch for their own profession in three, two, one…

"You know, you don't need a Magical Creatures NEWT to work in Mageozoology, Albus."

Yep. I call 'em like I see 'em.

"That's good to know, Luna. Why don't I send you an owl with my CV when I'm done with my NEWTs? Oh dear, I think I have to rescue Scorpius from Lysander. Excuse me." Oh thank Merlin.

Now, that was disappointing. Luna Scamander has always been my favorite of Mum and Dad's old DA friends. Normally she's quite pleasant, with her hyper-pragmatic lack of bullshite and ability to point out that which no one else cares to see. But here she is, rambling on like the rest of them about _careers_ and _futures_… I suppose she wants to help in her way; she probably knows that she's my favorite, but I'm not sure anyone can, to be perfectly honest.

"Lysander? Did Scorpius invite you to treat him like a set of monkey bars?"

"No, Albus," the five-year-old answers.

"Then be a good lad and play with your brother now. Ta." Scorpius cocks his head back and puts the back of his hand over his forehead.

"Oh, so _this_ is what it feels like to be rescued by a Potter. With those dashing emerald eyes all ablaze, I can see how Riddle himself just collapsed. I know _I'm_ all a-twitter," Scorpius teases. I just flip him the bird.

"Treating me like a common photographer, are you? There there, darling. Tell Uncle Scorpius what has your knickers all twisted."

"Luna. She was asking me about my _future_. Of all people. Tsk."

"Oh dear. And she's the pleasant one, isn't she? Hey, can we escape this thing yet? Your uncle keeps trying to check out my forearm."

"Merlin no, mate. Miles to go before we're through tonight. Shall I get you a garter so you can keep your sleeves up?"

"What, and ruin this ensemble?" Sometimes I can't tell when Scorpius is kidding and when he's not. This is one of those times. He actually seemed put-off by the question.

"Where's my date, anyway?"

"She's with Mum and Hannah in the kitchen. I think they're trying to make a girl out of her yet, for Merlin's sake."

"Didn't work on her mum. Woman still can't cook a lick. Suppose I ought to get my Gryffindor on and rescue the fair maiden. What do you say, Albus?"

"You go on ahead, sweets. No one ought to endure that for any longer than necessary." As Scorpius swishes off, I find myself alone, blissfully, on the chair in the corner where I found him being abused by a toddler. Now, why in the hell does Luna all of a sudden care about my future? I've spent the better part of six years developing alliances throughout the Magical world just so I don't have to concern myself with such mundanity. If I want a job, Scorpius's Grandad Greengrass will simply call up one of his offices and make it happen. And if he doesn't have the right opportunity for me, the Notts, the Fletchers, the Fawcetts… and that's just the Slytherins. Merlin knows the Hufflepuffs would give their eye teeth to be in the same room as the three of us, and there are any number of Lily and Hugo's housemates who've been trying to save us from a life of calculated debauchery. Hmm. Now _that_ sounds appealing. Calculated de-

"You know, you give your father a run for his money with a brood like that, Albus."

Inside, I hit the ceiling. However, I've practiced being caught unawares like this, so I'm able to keep my cool exterior.

"Dad was an amateur brooder, Aunt Hermione. And yes, Grandmum's shown me the pictures of him between fifth and sixth years. It's eyeliner that makes the brood, and Great Aunt Petunia would never let him be anymore freakish than he could help," I reply with a well-worn smirk. Aunt Hermione just shakes her head and chuckles to herself. Then she gets one of those looks in her eyes. Not a wicked one like her daughter has. More the type that would generally precede her, Uncle Ron and Dad ducking under the cloak for a midnight trip to Hagrid's.

"Alright, spill it, boy. What's going on between Rosie and Scorpius?" Now it was my turn for the look. Grandmum Potter's eyes don't come in handy quite as often as I wish I could wear colored contact lenses, but there are times…

"Aunt Hermione," I say, opening them as wide as I can, with a look suggesting butter wouldn't melt in my mouth, "What reason could I possibly have for spilling my two best friends' biggest secret?" She opens her mouth to give a quick reply, but I have her cornered. She knows I'm talking about _quid pro quo_, and I know she could never stoop to such a thing. Moreover, she knows that I know that. She's trapped, and with my Grandmum's eyes doing their thing, she almost appreciates being allowed to be trapped.

"You know, if your uncle Percy had a look like that, he'd have been Minister years ago. Have you thought about politics, Albus? You seem to have…" and as she goes on and on, the only word that comes to mind is

'Touché.'

"What's that, dear? Why do you look like you've seen a boggart?"

"Never mind, Aunt Hermione. Look, I'm not going to give up your daughter, and I have no intention of talking with Uncle Percy about the Ministry, at least not right now. I know the work you do there is important; really I do, but right now – "

"Right now you just couldn't be arsed."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me, Albus Potter. Right now it's ever-so-much-more-important for the three of you to go gallivanting about like society prats than to consider even for the shortest moment what the future might have in store for you. Tops of your class, the lot of you, you could do anything you wanted to. But…"

Oh sweet Merlin's hairy arse. People are starting to look.

"… ambition, put it to some good use! Are you even listening?"

"Of course I am, Aunt Hermione. I am, and I understand what you're saying."

Okay, Potter. Quickly now. What does she want? She wants her daughter safe and well – this is a maternal fright in her eyes. What can I give her? Can't promise to keep Rose safe. Oh, but I can distract her with a project.

"I really do understand it. It's just that… May I confide in you, Aunt Hermione?" That softened her demeanor a bit.

"Of course you can, Al." She's even huddling in a bit closer. I might be able to salvage some dignity out of this encounter yet.

"It's, well… Look, I really don't know what it is I want to do with my future, and the thought of leaving Hogwarts without anywhere to go has me a bit frightened. I've just been masking that fear behind this ambivalent exterior, hoping it would buy me enough time to get things figured out. I'm sorry if this has worried you about Rose, but she may very well be further on her way to deciding for herself what she wants." Now, let's judge non-verbals.

Okay, we have a knowing smirk. That could say 'Thank you for playing, but I see right through you, you useless ponce,' or 'Oh, you poor dear, I know how that feels.' Shall we be optimistic then and go with answer number two? Oh, wait. She's backing off a bit.

"Thank you for that, Albus. I'm sure it must be very difficult for you. Just know, honestly now, that you can come to any of us for any advice at all."

"Thank you, Aunt Hermione. I'll keep that in mind. Still won't give up the dirt on Rose, but I will keep that in mind." Smarmy grin, and… scene. OK, that was a bit too saccharine from Aunt Hermione, so she didn't buy it at all. But, she did leave, so I guess I get to keep my dignity for now. Oh, thank the gods above, Rose and Scorpius are back.

"Sweetie, do I have to rescue you from Mum again?"

"No, darling. She stopped mid-scene this time. I was able to distract her, or at least amuse her. She also wanted me to give up the goods on you two."

"You wouldn't dare!"

"Rose, love, I may be Slytherin, but I'm still human. Of course I didn't. Can we go upstairs? I think I need a break."

We're able to steal twenty minutes for Scorpius, who surprisingly is the least scathed of all of us this evening. Rose gets twenty-five, and I get thirty minutes to regain my composure. We've placed thirty minutes as the most we allow ourselves before we wind up making a bigger scene with our absence than we would with our presence. I certainly hope we don't need more time than that this evening.

It's amazing how this all started, us being in complete control over our destinies at Hogwarts. As soon as the whole sorting thing had settled down, we began to put our plan into motion. It was a three-pronged attack. First, there was mystery. We commandeered the Great Hall as our own personal common room, and just sat there and talked, studied, played exploding snap (Rose was snap queen, of course), and had in effect our own house. This is where that androgynous affectation started, as well. Don't ask us to quit it, either, believe me, we've tried. It's a part of who we are by now. Second, we had to be nice and welcoming to all. There was, at least on the outside, to be no excluding, no barring of a class of 'undesirables' from our midst. Everyone at Hogwarts has, at one time or another, felt themselves 'a part of' our group, and that's just fine. Engenders loyalty and all that. Thirdly we had to keep our grades up. And not just near the top, but at the top of our class. In every one of our classes, Weasley, Potter, Malfoy or some combination of the three were (and are) at the top of the grade sheet. This serves two purposes: We earn respect from our teachers and earn admiration from the students. For the first three years we were also hyper-vigilant about following rules. We knew that by following them early in our careers, we would set a precedent whereby a slip here or there would go unpunished. Also, with the entire school watching our every move, it would have been difficult for us to get away with much.

Now, you'd be right to think that this is a bit of advanced group dynamics thinking for a couple of eleven-year-olds. Okay, we're not _that_ good. The three-pronged attack came upon us slowly through the first two months of our first year. The Great Hall happened because we didn't want to worry about a first-year Slytherin in the Ravenclaw common room. Then, as we were generally kind to all that came by, not knowing who was more or less advantageous to align with, we saw that we had a host of friendly acquaintances built up, some of them as old as fourth-years. We also saw that part of our allure as a group was that we were sitting in the Great Hall when no one else would dream of doing such a thing, and moreover that we didn't give a rats candy-red arse who said what about it.

"Albus? Yoo-hoo, are you in there?" Scorpius is laughing at me. Effing brilliant.

"Yes, what? Of course I am. Cant a bloke get a good brood in every once in awhile?"

"Perhaps, but you were going on for _ever_. Why are you so all over the place, then? Still worked up over Luna?"

"What did Luna say to you, sweets?" Great. Now Rose is concerned. Oh well, we did promise to tell each other the truth, seeing as no one else would be getting that from us.

"She wanted to talk about _the_ _future_." My voice gets comically grave. Rose picks up on that with a feigned shriek – did I mention she's my favorite cousin?

"So what did that dizzy bint say about the future that got you all out of sorts? Come and tell mummy Rose everything."

"She asked me what I was planning on doing with my life." Ugh. She's really going to drag this out of me, isn't she?

"And you gave her a song and dance and then told her you'd be happy to send her a C.V., right?" Rose is good.

"Yes, of course. What did you want me to do, tell her "Mrs Scamander, I have decided to spend the balance of my days living a quiet life of carefully calculated debauchery." If you could only see Scorpius's and Rose's eyes light up.

"That's it, love! Calculated debauchery! It'll be like Hogwarts, only now we need to weave our magic on all of Wizarding Britain." The idea has apparently earned me a sloppy peck on the cheek from the old boy. Rose gets two for good measure.

"Ha." Rose says with finality. "Figures you two would wind up extending your wasted youths into adulthood. Me, I'm going to be a travel writer." Scorpius and I are rolling in laughter at this assertion.

"Right then. What's so funny, boys?" Rose asks.

"Same bloody thing, dear cousin. Besides, where've you been that you can write about, save visiting your muggle grandparents down under?" I'm still having a laugh about this. Scorpius, not so much.

"But Rosie, how would Albus and I ever be able to plan our takeover without your help? You wouldn't just leave us to fend for ourselves, would you? Darling, we _need_ you if we're going to live this life."

"Ha. If you're going to live that life all you'll need is a decent press representative. So, how shall we attack this Harry Potter Day bash?"

Scorpius and Rose have been strategizing for a good twenty minutes now. I offer to let them continue whilst I head back down to face the DA. Ten minutes later they mention something about wind charms to blow back our hair as we wade through the photographers arm in arm in arm. Which is okay, but Rose fails to mention that she whipped up a floating caption for us as we walk underneath the _impervius_ charm hanging over the red carpet.

"_That_ was pure genius, darling." I tell her, and she gives me a peck on the cheek just as a flashbulb goes off. I think I'm going get some of these shots when they come out in the press. You just don't make moments like these happen – okay, _we_ do, or at least we try to have a bigger say in them than most. But there's something about an entrance when everything comes together just right – when the lighting is perfect, the occasion is perfect, the snark is perfect, the outfits are perfect… This just did it. Scorpius is gorgeous, Rose is gorgeous – hell, I'm gorgeous. And we breeze through the doors and meet pure, unadulterated indifference. Gods, worse than that, I think Mum just waved at us.

"Albus, come over here a minute. There's someone I'd like you to say hello to."

Now, after an entrance like we had; after the kind of coordination, planning and effort that went into such an entrance, one would think my first words upon entering the Ministry ballroom wouldn't be

"Be right there, Mum!"

But they are. Well, that's karma for you, I suppose. Rose and Scorpius did do most of the planning; hopefully they fare better.

"Albus, you remember Minister Shacklebolt, don't you?"

"Ginny, you know I don't stand on formalities like that. It's Kingsley, lad, and the last time I saw you must have been…"

"At the party Mum and Dad had for James's Hogwarts letter, sir. That was right before you retired." No, I don't think I'm going to call the most important person in modern Magical history that I don't call "Dad" by his given name. But it was kind of him to offer.

"Excellent, of course," he says with a booming laugh. "Ginny, this is quite a young wizard you've got here. Ministry still needs men like you, Albus – it's what keeps us strong. Merlin, but you look so much like your father at his age."

"Yes, sir. I get that a lot." Mum is mouthing "I'm sorry, love" behind his back.

"Right, yes… I suppose you do. What year are you going into this year, Albus?"

"Seventh, sir." Escape. Escape. Escape…

"Excellent. Make sure you send me a copy of your CV if I can be of any help."

"Of course, sir. Pleasure to see you again."

"Right, lad. I expect to be seeing you here in a couple of years, what?"

"Albus, honey, I think Rose has left poor Scorpius alone. Why don't you go make sure he's having a good time?" Okay, have the sense not to actually run away from the man. Walk, slowly… confidently… there. Make sure to get something nice for Mum for her birthday in a couple of weeks.

"Merlin, mate, was that Kingsley Shacklebolt you were talking to?" I don't think I've ever heard Scorpius actually _impressed_ by someone other than the three of us before.

"Gods yes. Ten years as Minister and you'd think the man would know when to shut the hell up." I am remembering to whisper, dreadful as that was. Scorpius is not exactly nursing a flagon of firewhiskey as we chat. Rose comes by with her own, and I excuse myself to the open bar to see about my own libations. Merlin knows I'll be needing them tonight. Another nice thing about fame is that I never need proof. You don't know I'm seventeen? Borrow someone's _Witches' World_.

"Quite a crowd here, isn't it?"

Watch me try not to fall apart here. I'm not going to ask for an autograph. I'm going to maintain… Harry Potter's son, damnit; I can do this. Remember to breathe is all…

"Mr. Creevey, a pleasure, sir."

Interesting how when you meet your idols you wind up noticing everything. His book of photographs of victims of the war, _Scars_, has been one of my stylistic inspirations since I first laid eyes on it summer after second year. Dad was able to get a print of Lavender Brown's picture for me for a birthday present this year. She's gorgeous, of course, as only Fenrir Greyback could make her. He's shorter than you'd think someone who took photographs of that importance would be. Maybe five-foot four, in boots with a raised sole. He has a remarkably youthful face; only thinning hair and lines etched by grief and seeing too much at too young an age betray that he's the other side of forty.

Merlin's balls, but all it takes is close proximity to a celebrity for me to turn into a bloody poet.

"Please, call me Dennis. That was quite an entrance you three made tonight, Albus. I loved the caption. And the wind charm was genius."

"Right, glad to hear someone noticed. Rose and Scorpius worked hard on that. Not sure these things would have much for us if we didn't have our entrances."

"Certainly have those down. I've been impressed with you three over the years. You've developed a style, nearly a brand. That certainly doesn't happen by accident."

"Thank you, Dennis. That means quite a bit coming from you. I suppose you've heard I'm a bit of a fan of your work, too."

"Quite. Your dad's mentioned something to that effect. Are you enjoying that print of Lavender, by the way? Would you like me to introduce you to her?"

Lavender Brown? Style maven and all-around diva extraordinaire? Why yes, yes I think I would like to meet her.

"That'd be brilliant, Dennis. Thanks."

The old cliché that talks about how wizards get distinguished with age while witches just get old? Trumped by one Miss Lavender Brown. 43 years old, same age as Dad, and with head-turning looks. She's not merely fit; she has a style and a grace that simply refuse to be ignored. So I don't. Pair her in the scene with Dennis Creevey and the cool factor is much greater than the some of its very worthy parts. Dennis in an all-black ensemble: boots, baggy trousers and a sleeveless vest. Lavender in a very smart black cocktail dress with enough of her back exposed to show her breathtaking ink work.

"Lavender, let me introduce you to Albus – "

"Of course. Albus Potter. I've followed you and your friends in the style rags for years." Kinder words have probably never been spoken. And then she surpasses that mark by a mile.

"You do know that you have those wankers wrapped around your finger, right?"

Blushing. I'm actually blushing. And I think I'm enjoying it.

"The thought has crossed my mind, Miss Brown," I reply, feigning confidence. Dennis knocks that confidence right off of the wickets.

"Lavender, sweetie, you've made him blush." The three of us share a bit of a laugh over this, mentioning my Weasley heritage and a story or two about Mum back at Hogwarts. Somehow I don't mind. We chat for a bit longer – dish is probably the more appropriate term. I tell them about my run-in with Minister Shacklebolt, Lavender just tears _apart_ Aunt Hermione's outfit (Dennis stifles a chuckle at this, but I can see where she's coming from. Honestly – we know you're a witch, but must you wear robes to everything?) Dennis is convinced Ms. Chang has gotten some work done recently ("have you ever seen her really smile?" he asks), and we all get a good laugh at the Wizarding Wireless press who've turned out. Lavender floors me, though, when I mention how I've always admired Uncle Percy's fashion sense.

"You do know he's one of my clients, right?"

"Your clients, Lavender?" I ask, not quite sure what she means by that.

"My dear child, what did you _think_ I did for a living, get by on my good looks alone?" We share a chuckle at this, although if good looks did pay the bills, neither of them would be exactly poor.

"No dear," she continues, "I'm a style and image consultant. I help people like your dear Uncle Percy determine and follow a style concept. He was a tough case, but Merlin is he ever improved over his Hogwarts days."

We talk a bit further about this – Dennis makes his graceful exit to go chat up the Patil twins and their families – and she tells me that her business really got off the ground after her picture was shown in Dennis's gallery. Others who'd had their appearances damaged by the war sought her out, as she was so comfortable with hers, and she turned that into a small business. As the war victims became fewer and fewer she used her DA contacts (including Aunt Hermione, she's quick to point out – probably trying to make up for her earlier dishy comments) to build a network of potential clients, and today she has a waiting list just to make an appointment.

"So, would being the Minister's nephew get me a discount, then?" I quip.

"Sweetie, you and your friends may be the only three people in Wizarding Britain that _don't_ need my services. Your sense of style is impeccable; and Scorpius… Merlin's balls can that young man dress. Pissed as he is right now you wouldn't know it, but…" I look over at Scorpius, who is quite pissed and talking rather closely with Rose. No, this isn't a good look on him.

"No, I don't think I could be of much help to you, Albus. In a few years, who knows – I may be coming to you for guidance. Here, take my card, love. Floo on over before Hogwarts starts up again, but we should grab our seats. It just wouldn't do to be gabbing whilst Harry Potter's giving a speech now, would it?" she says with a wink, and kisses me on both cheeks, which I have the composure to return, gobsmacked as I am.

Dad's been in rare form tonight. Mum always tells me how shy he is naturally, and how long it took for him to get out of his shell, even after the war. But tonight he's been walking around, glad-handing the guests and his old DA friends, chatting up a storm and even taking Mum and Lily for a spin on the dance floor. By the time he starts his speech, he has the entire room transfixed by his every move. Dad's good like that.

"Amazing stuff, this magic," he starts. "For my eleventh birthday I get a cake with my name on it for the first time, and by my 43rd I have a day named after me and a Ministry ball." Cheap joke, but it will work for an opening.

"You know, I never did want any of this. Of course, that's been well documented. It's been well documented that from the time I was eleven to the day Tom Riddle died, all I really wanted was a bit of peace and quiet in the world that I had just come to find out was my own. We all know I didn't get that, and that was due to a prophecy made years before I picked up a wand for the first time.

"Tom Riddle may have been a model for deceitful megalomaniacs everywhere, but never did he speak truer words about me than when he called me "a child of no extraordinary magical power." What was it, then, that brought about his demise? What allowed a group of teenagers to not only bring a war to this evil that was invading our society, but win that war against some of the most powerful witches and wizards in the nation, and do so with relatively few casualties?

"Given who we were and when this all took place, it's not surprising that there were no Slytherins in our group, but when I think about what allowed us, the DA, to win the war, it is a very Slytherin skill. We were able to take what we were given by the Fates, whether good or bad, and use it to our maximum advantage. Our generation was given no particular genetic advantage in dueling, we simply worked hard, trusted each other, and made the most of the gifts we had. And when our generation is looked back upon in history books, it is my hope that _that_ is how we will be remembered. I'd like to thank you all for coming this evening, and I certainly hope you have a good time"

Must make sure to ask the old man if he's going to be running for office himself. Oh sweet Rowena, we're singing Happy Birthday, are we? Lavender chuckles and smiles at me as I hold my shaking head in my hands. Then again, she's not singing, either. Well, there's been an entrance, there's been some palaver, there's been a speech and there's been cake (mercifully not in the shape of a snitch this time). I guess that's my cue to make the earliest graceful exit I can. I make a fond farewell to Lavender (only after I promise to make an appointment to meet with her before school starts up again), and head off looking for Rose and Scorpius. They must be dying to get out of here. Oh look, fancy that. They're not.

"Oh now _that's_ attractive," I say quite pointedly, and watch as they jump off of one another and start re-arranging bits of robes and blouses.

"Honestly, snogging like fourth-years behind a pot plant? And you two are supposed to be two-thirds of the epicenter of style? How many cameras do you think there are in here tonight? Ye gods, but you two are mental. Well, at least I don't have to hold your secret for much longer."

"Albush, w-wait. W-we were jusht…"

"Rosie, you're as boiled as an owl. Don't talk, either of you. Just dress yourselves, gather some modicum of respectability back and let me get you home. Scorpius, you're staying with me tonight. I'll floo Astoria when we get back to my house. Rose, I'm going to find your mum and let her know I'm taking you back to your room. Bloody good thing you can use the "but I'm of age" excuse in the morning, love. You're going to need it. That, a good hangover potion and a pensieve to help you remember what you did."

"Those don't w-work on dr-"

"Can it, Rosie. Pull yourself together. I'm going to find your folks."

Blessedly there was a minimum of drama as I relayed the state in which I found her daughter to Aunt Hermione. She just shook her head and kissed me on the cheek telling me I was a good friend for apparating her home in that condition. I told mum that Scorpius would be sobering up in my room, too.

"Anything happen then tonight, love?" she asked me when I was done with my explanation.

"Oh, nothing you won't read about in tomorrow's _Prophet_, I imagine," I replied with a smirk. Mum tilted her head at me questioningly, but I merely smiled and gave her a peck on the cheek. Then I nodded my head in the direction of the less than discreet foliage still being used as cover by Scorpius and Rose.

"Albus, why don't you have Rose spend the night, too. We'll put her in the guest room, and Scorpius can bunk in with you."

"Why's that, Mum?"

"Your uncle Ron is going to do his nut over finding out about the two of them because of some pictures in the _Prophet._ I'll call some of my editor friends over there to head off the worst of the worst, but that won't stop _Witch Weekly_ or any of those rags from buying the more lascivious ones straight from the photographer. She's better off at our place."

Astoria Malfoy is just as understanding. A cheery "Ta ta for now," and the flames die down. Rose and Scorpius have long since passed out. It's been quite the day. I think I'm going to join them.

**Epilogue: Nineteen Hours Later**

As usual, Mum made the right call about Uncle Ron. He still doesn't trust either Scorpius or me (although Dad says I'm mental for thinking he doesn't trust me) any farther than he can throw us, and he was not at all pleased to find out that Rose and Scorpius have been an item since first year. At least Dad was able to convince him to 'let the kids sober up a bit before you lay into them, mate,' and one of those dreadful scenes was averted at our breakfast table. It was Aunt Hermione who retrieved a very chastened looking Rose from our place, after she and Scorpius were finally able to spend a day like a couple. They had wanted to wait until after Hogwarts, to see if they were still together at that point before letting people (read: her parents) know, but the Fates seemed to have other plans. Now that the cat's out of the bag, though, it looks as though they're going to make a go of it after all. After only five years, too…

I made an appointment to see Lavender at her loft offices in muggle Kensington this coming Friday the fourth. Her assistant seemed to be expecting my floo call and was very gracious. Her make-up was impeccable, too. Lavender had her relay to me that she expected me to come with a portfolio of some of my stylistic achievements. Of course, I've saved each and every clipping in which 'The Mercurial Trio' has been featured, but it would be good if I attached a small write-up to each of those clippings.

"What are you up to, son?"

"I made an appointment to see Lavender Brown on Friday, Dad. She asked me to put together a portfolio of my best work, so I'm gathering some of my old clippings and annotating them. Was there something you needed, Dad?" I ask this in a friendly manner. It's not that Dad isn't welcome to knock on my bedroom door; it's just that he so rarely does – I assumed he wasn't just up here to shoot the breeze.

"Right. Well, I just wanted to see how you were handling things with your friends' little tryst at the party last night getting such coverage. I've been the third in a trio before, and – "

"It's okay, Dad. They've been together for years; it's just that I was the only one who knew about it. I'm used to it. I just hope they manage to rebuild their dignity before school starts up again. This is our seventh year, after all."

"And if that doesn't happen?"

If there's one thing in this world I've tried to stay away from, it's cliché. I don't want to be typecast, I don't want to have any of my actions perceived as expected because of a particular character type – I will not be pigeonholed. Yet, at this moment, Dad has just asked such a ridiculous question that I can't help but laugh along with him. It's a heartwarming family moment, and I'm glad I've already had supper. Ah well, these things happen.

"May I see this portfolio of yours, Al?"

"Of course, Dad."

We spend the next three hours going over bits of the last five years of my life. He's amazed that it was me who came up with the name of our trio and passed it along to a reporter we knew we could trust. He loves the careful planning that went into each event, loves how the three of us work so well together, and how conscious we've been about what look like forgettable details. I give him many, many more stories about how we deceived an manipulated faculty and students alike, and he gets a bit of a glisten in his famously emerald eyes as he listens.

"You know I'm dead proud of all three of you, right?" he asks, and I brace myself for another father-son moment.

"And it's not that James or Lily have done something less impressive following in their parents' footsteps, mind. But it takes something special to forge your own way in this world, Al, and I admire that. It can't have been easy growing up under the specter of being Harry Potter's Son," Dad does that quote-thing with his fingers as he says this, "but you've really found a place for yourself in this world. If I'm honest, your mum and I had been a bit worried about what you'd be doing after Hogwarts. I'm not anymore, son, not at all. Why don't you get back to that, and if you need a hand with something, I'll be glad to lend one."

So I continue to peruse the paparazzi's chronicling of my life, and if there were a more melancholy pursuit, I don't know what it is. Looking at pictures of Rose and Scorpius, I know they're going to recover from what will be seen as a set-back in their plans. I'll certainly mention them to Lavender on Friday, although I'm not sure either of them will see the merit of making that particular connection. Do we consider that we've achieved everything we've wanted to in six years rather than seven? Do Rose and Scorpius allow themselves finally to be seen walking hand in hand through the corridors? Might one of us show up to a house Quidditch match just to see what the excitement is all about? Probably not. But there will be changes this year in the Mercurial Trio; it wouldn't be seventh-year if there weren't. We're going to need to re-define ourselves, our personas, our mission. And if we're going to lead this life of calculated debauchery, I think we're going to need to define _that_ a bit better. But there will be time for that on the train ride north. Until then, I should get busy on this portfolio.


	12. Draco Malfoy

**Happy Birthday, Draco Malfoy**

_(Draco)_

**By sylphides**

_The most common use for Ashwinder eggs are in potions meant to simulate and instigate the effects of love in the imbiber. It is for this reason, as well as its extreme flammability, that Ashwinder eggs are considered—_

"Screw this!" The lanky blond boy, previously hunched over a book, hurled said book across his room in frustration. Growling, he pushed himself out of the chair and began pacing his gilded cage rapidly. It was a luxurious room, by all means. He'd grown up in this room, with its enormous bed and marble bathroom attached. But right now, it was his prison and he wanted _out. _Stalking over to the windows, he yanked open the curtains and peered out. When he'd been a young boy and his parents had been arguing again, loudly and bitterly, he'd squeezed out of his bedroom window clutching his broom and launched himself out carelessly to the winds. Now, Draco Malfoy could only press his forehead helplessly against the windows the Aurors had sealed shut magically and stare fiercely at the burnished-blue sky that mocked him.

_I should be pitifully happy right now. In fact, if I were Pettigrew, I'd be groveling at Potter's feet. After all, it was Potter who spoke up for Mother and I. If he hadn't, we'd be in Azkaban like Father, and I don't think either of us are cut out for life in a real prison. _No, Draco knew that Potter—however much he hated the boy who had torn apart his life—had saved his life during the Battle of Hogwarts, and most probably saved him from slowly dying in Azkaban. His mother would have gone even quicker in that environment. Lucius was made of stronger stuff. He'd survive, at least until they took him to the Dementors. That announcement, the unanimous decision of the Wizgamot, had arrived yesterday. Lucius Malfoy, sentenced to be Kissed in two weeks. His mother had not stopped crying since then. Draco only felt cold, cold until he could barely move, his hands and feet numb with some queer ailment or other.

_Mother looks wrong somehow without Father next to her, _he'd thought randomly when they told him of his father's verdict. She'd been acquitted and only heavily fined for "fraternizing with the enemy" because she'd never borne the mark and because she'd helped Potter at the crucial moment, disguising his return to life. He didn't think she'd survive his father.

They'd been under house arrest for a month, he and Mother. No, not even as kind as house arrest, considering what had taken place and who had fouled the Manor. There were certain rooms they could go into—his, Mother's, a small and unused parlor, the kitchen. The house-elves had stayed, though Mother had been forced to give them clothes. Draco didn't know why. None of the Malfoys had been particularly kind or considerate to them. Yet they remained, and no Ministry official could budge them from their place. It didn't matter anyway, there would probably be no acting head of the Malfoys by the end of the month. _My trial was held two days ago. They will have reached a decision soon, soon, soon, soon._

It pounded in his mind, over and over again. _Soon, they'll send a messenger to tell me what my fate is. Soon I'll leave this limbo. Soon my father will have his soul sucked out and I'll have to watch. Soon—_

The door creaked, and he jumped and whirled, hand automatically seeking for a wand that wasn't there, hadn't been there since Potter had taken his and the Ministry had taken Mother's.

"Mother. You gave me a surprise." He tried to calm his wildly beating heart, and flattened his hair in an attempt to look half-groomed. He'd stopped really caring about his appearance anyhow. No one was there to fault him for not dressing the part of a Malfoy anymore. But his mother's presence reminded him uncomfortably of how much he looked like his father, and his father was never anything less than properly dressed and elegant.

"Draco." She tried to smile, and managed a weak upturning of the corners of her chapped lips. Narcissa had been a beauty once, before the tolls of hosting a monster in her own home and never knowing when any of her family could be made the next example had painted dark circles under her eyes and the beginnings of wrinkles on her face. At least she had stopped crying, Draco observed detachedly.

"Yes, Mother?"

"I- wanted to give you this. I don't know what they will decide for you, but I'd like to hope that Harry Potter will remember that you are the same age as him. And- Happy Birthday, my son." She held out a small box, manicured hands trembling. _She is much thinner than last year. Almost skeletal. _

Then he registered what she had said. _Birthday. _Oh. _He'd forgotten, forgotten his own birthday in the frozen state of fog he'd been in since they'd taken his father away. Or perhaps he'd been lost in the fog since he'd first stood before the beast that called himself lord of us all, and been told to kill. _

Conscious of his own dirty and gnawed on nails, a contrast next to his mother's—especially when they shared the same gaunt features and pale skin—he reached out, and tentatively took the box. It was surprisingly light.

Looking up at his mother, he caught her expression of grief before she composed herself, and he knew that despite his ragged state, she'd seen his father in him at that moment.

_"Draco, my boy, come fly with your old daddy will you?" A younger Lucius swept a young boy, perhaps four or five, up onto his shoulders, calling back through the giggles coming from above him. "Cissa, Draco and I are going flying!"_

_"Be careful of Draco, Lucius! Don't let him fall!" She called back from the dining hall where she was surveying the flower arrangements and place settings for the party later tonight. _

_"Yes, Cissa."_

_"Daddy won't let me fall, Mummy! Right, Daddy? Daddy can we do the fun thing when we nearly fall but don't?"_

_"Shh, don't tell your mum that I've flown that move with you on the broom! She'll have my hide!"_

_"But can we Daddy?"_

_"Yes, if you promise to hold on tight to the broom."_

_"I don't need to, Daddy. You squeeze me too much for anything to happen, until I feel all out of shape. Daddy, I want my own broomstick for my birthday tomorrow."_

_"You're a little young for it, Draco."_

_"Pleeease? Everyone else has one already!"_

_"Pansy doesn't."_

_"Pansy don't like flying!"_

_"Pansy _doesn't, _Draco. Speak properly, please."_

_"Yes, sir. But Pansy don- doesn't. She's scared of heights. She's scared of everything, even a kneazle. I saw her scream when one ran at her once. Did you know?"_

"Draco. Draco." He snapped out of his memory, and smiled painfully at his mother. She didn't ask what he'd been doing a million miles away. It was something they danced around, like they avoided the topic of Lucius, of her trial, of his. Of the entire past two years.

Taking a breath, he opened the palm-sized box and wiggled his fingers through the tissue paper until his skin met glass. Curious, he pulled it out carefully.

His father peered back at him, haughty and nervous at the same time. On closer examination, Draco saw the reason why. In the silently moving framed picture, a young Lucius Malfoy was cradling a newborn baby—Draco—while from the bed beside him, an exhausted Narcissa looked on at her two boys proudly. Draco tensed, staring at the image.

_His family. His birth. _He'd never seen this before, most likely because it didn't show off the Malfoy family as rich, or clever, or attractive, or any of the other reasons they'd taken a family portrait. His family had never subscribed to the take-a-thousand-baby-pictures phenomenon that most parents went through.

"We had S- Severus take that picture for us when you were finally born. It took you so long to come out, Lucius had brought every nurse in that ward to tears, and sent the mediwizard nearly fleeing for his life. But then you came, and cried, and they cleaned you up and plopped you in his arms, and he froze up and stared at you like you were an alien. He was just finally relaxing and realizing he wasn't going to kill you by holding you when Severus snuck that picture."

His mother's voice broke at the end, and without removing his eyes from the precious frame, he set the box down on his bed and reached out to grasp her clammy hand. They stood there, mother and son, both watching as Lucius gently stroked his newborn child with an emotion akin to awe, threw a glance at Narcissa that was as full of love as it was wordless, and glared up at anyone observing his momentary lapse of dignity.

_So this is another gift from you, Professor Snape. You always tried your best to protect me, I know. Even when father was turning the place upside-down with his newfound fervor with the Dark Lord, you knew how to make me understand that I hadn't been replaced in his favor, or forgotten. You saved me when I couldn't murder, and took my sins for your own burden. And all the time, you were grieving still for someone who'd never loved you back. Lily Potter was a fool when she rejected you, Professor Snape. May you rest in peace, whatever there is after death…_

And like an echo, an acerbic reply seemed to reverberate around his mind, _Take care of your mother, Draco. You'll soon be all that she has in the world. Be the man I know you can be, and not the spoiled brat you were in school, or the scared boy who was forced to obey the whims of a madman. Live, Draco._

"I could still be sentenced to Azkaban for life," Draco murmured to the memory of his former teacher and protector.

"Have faith, Draco. You were a young boy forced into service to a powerful tyrant. They'll understand that." His mother answered, unaware that he'd been speaking to an absent ghost.

"I stood by and did nothing, Mother. I actively spread propaganda for anti-muggleborn sentiments, nearly killed Katie Bell, let the death eaters into Hogwarts, attempted to murder the headmaster, Imperius'd Madame Rosmerta, and tried to stop Potter during the battle. I think that's quite enough to get me sentenced for life, if not enough for the Dementor's Kiss."

His mother was silent, but her grip on his hand was fierce. Carefully, reverently, Draco placed the picture that Severus Snape had somehow reached out from beyond death and given to him through his mother onto his desk. He removed his hand from his mother's clasp after squeezing it a little. "Mother, I think I'd like some time to myself to- think. Thank you for your present."

"You're welcome, Draco. I-" she paused. Draco looked inquiringly at her.

"I- you've always made Lucius and I proud, Draco. We've never stopped. He would sacrifice anything for you, as would I. I just wanted you to know that. We love you, Draco."

Slowly, he turned to his mother. "Mother-" his breath caught, and he was embarrassed to hear a distinct sob.

He tried again. "Mother, you- I- I love you both as well."

Perhaps it had been the magic password to some locked-away part of himself, he didn't know. But when he had said those words, it was as if the emotions hidden in some fortress within his mind broke loose, and Draco realized that the wetness on his face must be tears, and that he was crying in gasps and his mother was hugging him like she hadn't hugged him since he was a little boy and had scraped his knee.

"_I don't want Father to die!" _

"Shh, Draco. Hush. It's okay. We're going to be okay. He'd want us to show those bastards what Malfoys are made out of, that one death isn't going to bring us all down. We'll be okay, somehow."

It was, perhaps, the most inopportune time for the Auror to clear his throat. Draco's head shot up, and he swiped at his face ineffectually.

The Auror was the same person who had first sealed all escape routes in the Manor and escorted them into their own home. Dupont, his name was, if Draco was not mistaken. He had a blank expression, and carried a scroll which he passed to Narcissa when he saw that he'd been noticed. "Mrs Malfoy, here is the final verdict for your son's trial. I'll leave you two to your privacy now, but I'll be downstairs if you need anything."

The man left, and Narcissa held out the scroll to Draco, who shook his head. "No, Mother, you read it."

"Are you certain?"

"Yes."

She unrolled it shakily, and her eyes darted down through the formal jargon to the decision down at the bottom, which she read out.

"Judged: Guilty on one count of performing an unforgivable, two counts of endangerment to fellow students, and one count of attacking a headmaster.

Wizgamot vote: For endangerment to fellow peers, a fine of five thousand galleons to be paid to injured parties, Katie Bell and Hogwarts School, respectively.

For performing an unforgivable, a fine of ten thousand galleons to be paid to the injured party, Christie Rosmerta, proprietor of the Three Broomsticks.

For attacking with intent to murder Headmaster Albus Dumbledore, five years of hard labor in a dragon-reserve in Romania learning the value of all life, under the guard of Order member Charlie Weasley and Auror Aidan Dupont, beginning in two weeks."

There was a disbelieving moment, and then his mother's face entirely transformed. "You're not going to Azkaban!"

"I'm- I'm not?" Draco wasn't sure he'd heard right. Surely Mother had to be wrong. He'd done so many things. Even one unforgivable curse should have landed him in Azkaban forever. How had he gotten away so lightly? _A cruel joke. Someone trying to crush my mother and I._

But no one was coming to tell him that it was all false, and drag him away to jail. The scroll had ended there. And his mother was glowing the way she hadn't since the blasted world had fallen apart with the re-entrance of the Dark Lord.

"I'm free?" _Free, _his mind whispered.

"Yes! Draco, you're free!"

Madly, his mother grabbed his hands and started dancing and whooping in joy. The sight of his refined mother doing a jig like a little girl was perhaps what broke through his dawning realization, and without further ado he threw away his own Malfoy arrogance and began to dance as well.

"I'm coming with you, Draco." His mother panted as they pranced like idiots in his bedroom.

"What?"

"To the dragon reserve. Romania. I'm coming with you in two weeks, when they ship you off to work there for your sentence."

"But Mother-"

She interrupted him, slowing in their wild dance and sitting down on his bed. She patted the spread next to her, and he plopped down as well. "Draco, there'll be nothing left here for me. This Manor has too many fresh memories I don't want to remember every time I walk into the dining hall or the big parlor. Your inheritance from your father will be more than enough to cover the fines, and I still have my own money, which is plenty. I'll have the lawyer get rid of the Manor somehow, and we'll move to Romania. I just- I just don't want to be alone, Draco. In two weeks, your father-"

She stopped abruptly. Draco's mindless euphoria gave way to the familiar pain again. "I understand, Mother. It'll be hard for you, you understand? Both of us are used to money and luxury. We won't get that there."

"I know, Draco. It'll be worth it, and maybe a new start for us as well. Only Charlie Weasley and the Auror will have known us from before."

"Are you sure about this, Mother?"

"Yes. Your father would want me to do this." She was firm, and when she got that stubborn glint in her eye Draco knew no one would be able to change her mind.

"Then what are we waiting for? Let's get Dupont downstairs to floo our lawyer!"

As the mother and son left the bedroom, Draco looked back at the picture on his table. _Happy Birthday indeed, Draco. _


	13. Remus Lupin

**March 10th**  
_(Remus)_  
**By RyanKathrynCelia**

Date: March 10th.

There are two times in a year when a person truly appreciates their friends and family. One is Christmas, when one shares food, gifts and happy memories with friends and family. The other is the day that you are officially one year older, one year nearer to a specific mark, whether it be seventeen, 21 or even a 100. To some people a birthday was just another day of the year, no different to any other day of the week, the month, even the year. I suppose that's why I'm writing this, to be honest.

Why you ask? No one is ever going to read the journal of Remus J. Lupin. Well, except a 40 something Remus laughing at how silly he sounded writing all though years ago, I suppose.

Well, regardless of why I'm writing this today was my birthday. The day of the year when I truly realise how lucky I'm am to be where I am now. Namely Hogwarts with James, Sirius and Peter. I honestly thought they had forgotten the day when we went down for breakfast, an event that dampened my spirits, I must admit. It was like the small things that a person doesn't really notice were making a mockery of my mood as well, the sun shining brightly through the ceiling of the Great Hall, the professors all cheery and smiling, and the laughter that rose up from the four house tables.

But like I said, they surprised me.

The lessons progressed as normal. James and Sirius went about their normal antics, this time picking on Slughorn as their prank victim. They set off a chain reaction which made all the potions turn all the colours of the rainbow. My own potion turned the lightest shade of blue I have ever seen. McGonagall was her normal self, although she did take me aside at the end of the class and wished me a quite 'Happy Birthday'. She even gave me a couple of the sweets that she keeps carefully hidden in her desk. Suffice to say I didn't tell the others about that.

Dinner was pretty much normal. The others though, they were starting to act a little strange. You know? Shift looking. Like they had done something that was quite in the boundaries of the school rules. Of course, they wouldn't tell, not in the Great Hall with so many other people potentially listening on what we had to say.

We didn't head straight back up to the common room. We just wondered the halls and corridors for a while, talking of nothing in particular. James, once again, had his usual rant about Snape and his friendship with Lily. Between me and you they'll probably end up together before school finishes. Who knows? Stranger things have happened. Oh! Back to the story.

Peter started leading us towards a disused section of the school on the third floor. There were tables upturned and a few chairs scattered about the place. As soon as we entered the room Sirius locked the classroom door. I should have realised something was going to happen then, but it locking doors when we wander the school this time of night was common practice. Especially when the others are planning pranks. Usually on the Slytherin's.

As they turned to me I began to walk backwards. There was this glint in their eyes. The one they got when they got an idea about a huge prank. What had they planned for me?

Well, the short answer is that they planned the best birthday I have ever experienced.

They gave me this speech about how we were all best friends, about how we all went through thick and thin together. About how we would always be friends. And about how annoyed they were when I didn't remind them that my birthday was coming up and they had to rely on their own brains to remember. I was still expecting a prank of some sort.

Instead I got the biggest shock of my life.

One by one, James first, they began to change. To _transform_ into animals. James, a magnificent stag. A characteristic that suited him as he strutted around the small class room. Sirius a big black shaggy looking dog. The characteristic also suited him, as he would always remain loyal to James, simply because of their friendship, and the circumstances surrounding its formation. Peter's transformation also suited him, although more subtly. He was a rat, small, fast and clever.

I wonder how many other people can say that their friends became animagi for their lycanthrope friend? I'm willing to bet all that I have that the answer is none.

They transformed into animals, undertook the most dangerous (not to mention illegal!) magics for me to help me when I transform into a werewolf. This has been the best birthday I have ever had, and has truly reminded me of the friends that I have. And that I should never doubt them in forgetting my birthday.

Of course, they also gave me a book to keep me occupied whilst they ran around in their transformed states. Well, I have to keep busy somehow now, don't I?

Remus.


	14. James Potter

**A Pig In Mud  
**

_(James Potter)_

**By MatoakaWilde**

The year James Potter was born spring came early. Pungent floral fumes dominated the senses and forbade winter access another day. The sun beat powerfully upon the land and its inhabitants so that none who ventured out in the bright heat stayed dry for long.

His mum remembered those early days well. She had awaited motherhood for so long that when it had finally come, she felt as if in some past life she had already been the mother to her little dark haired son. Without need of pictures, single scents of sweat honeysuckle or musky lilac could bring back to her memories more realized than any photograph. Afternoons would return to her, of sunning her new baby on a paisley patterned blanket and speaking to him in a singsong voice, "Do you like this flower? Can you hear that bird?"

In the lifetimes of both Mrs. Potter and her son, no other spring would ever be as bright and bold as that one had been. All proceeding springs would play out dully, regardless of the drenching rains or the sunny days. The elements would try to produce a result as supreme as the year James had been born, but they would always come up short. Every birthday James would look from a window, either from his home or his school, and see the waterlogged March landscape and wish that he had been born in the summer, then he would look around at the world on his birthday and be greeted by warmth. Though James had parents who loved him and friends who adored him, so despite the inhospitality of the weather James had always felt warm.

On his birthday no one would forget that the day was a day for James. He was given affection, cards, and presents. People wished him happy birthday who he'd only talked to but once in a while. No one else but James had his or her birthday on this day. Even if they had been born in the same twenty-four hour period he had been it was unrecognizable the public when under the shadow of James. His presence was domineering and pervasive, much like the fragrant lilac bushes that had stood at either side of the front door of the house that James had been carried into on his second day of life, his little pink body in a little white blanket.

His early birthdays he had celebrated while still climbing the single digits were not terribly personal affairs. The house had always been filled with guests with gifts, well dressed with a glasses of punch in their hands, beaming at him with their aged faces, wishing him a "Happy Birthday!" James had enjoyed the pats and the compliments, deriving a satisfaction from them just as he did from the fudge cake and butter-cream frosted biscuits. For most of his youth was spent around those much older than him, people who would constantly admire him from every angle and tell him so. James would not have real friends to spend his birthday with until he was bit older.

Close with both his parents, but especially with his mother, he would frequently tag along with her whenever she would go, as there had been no other candidates competing to be his playmate. Frequently James would follow her into her garden, which she kept tastefully manicured yet not too segregated. Each plant was always placed in the earth only after thoughtful consideration. James would watch his mother with a proud and fascinated eye as she worked among the flora, her hands in the soil. After he'd grown older, no longer trotting about on the ground, but gliding through the air on his broom, he'd not forget to look down at her from his perch and marvel at her ability to orchestrate such a paradise.

Sometimes he would be pulled into more than watching and his mother would had him a spade and tell him where to dig. Because of his James had soon discovered he hated gardening. His holes were never deep enough and his plants always stuck lopsided out of the ground. He would complain that he couldn't do it and his mother would say, "Oh but James you can, you just mustn't be so impatient."

"But I'm not!" James would insist while burying an unsuspecting beetle in a hole meant for a gladiolus. "The flower is the one not being good!"

Because for the life of him James hadn't been able to garden, constantly finding himself at odds with the daises and the daffodils, his admiration for his mother's art had only grown. Also growing had been the garden, expanding in small increments every year. Its beauty never failed, age only brought it more splendors. James would pretend he wasn't sensitive to this but it was pure posture.

On the eve of his eleventh birthday, the last one he would spend at home (for come fall he would begin his school career) James discovered one the secrets of his mother's garden. He had seen her in the dusky damp twilight kneeling between ivied arbors. She'd had her wand in her hand, which she'd gracefully flick sending glittering yellow sparkles onto the area below.

"What are you doing out so late mum?" James had asked. "The sun's almost down."

"Only a last minute planting I'd almost forgot."

Her voice had sounded fragile in the night air, like quivering ice. James had wondered if perhaps old Ms. Bagshot down the road had died or if he'd missed another such event that would so trouble his mother.

"All right mum?" He'd walked closer but not too close, afraid that some small frightening detail would appear.

"I'm fine dear. Are you looking forward to your birthday party tomorrow?"

"Yep, I'll finally be eleven! That means I'll get my Hogwarts letter, right?"

"Not until the summer dear."

"Yeah. Too bad."

A silence had embarked upon them, signaling a feeling of uneasiness for James. He and his parents were rarely quiet towards one another. James had always been eager to entertain them and they always to praise his efforts.

"What flower's that?" James had said to fight the disquiet.

"They're pansies." His mother had answered, settling one into its bed. "You know James, every year around your birthday I plant a patch of flowers for you. It started when I first brought you home from the hospital. People sent flowers, cards of congratulations. Every plant I was given that week I planted in this garden. Most of them are still here even. And each year I add something, a flower, a shrub, during the anniversary of that week. It is a secret way I celebrate."

James listened to his mum, mystified that he hadn't already known this one thing about her.

"Will you still do it when I'm at school?"

"I imagine so, it will still be your birthday won't it?"

And this had reassured James, who at ten on the verge of eleven, did not consider his birthday ever ceasing to hold great importance. For he looked forward to getting older, collecting the years, associating himself with different numbers. James had believed in his birthdays more than he had in the alternative.

But what ten-year-old is expected to anticipate death?

Soon his eleventh birthday had come and gone and summer had boiled away spring. After what had seemed like years to him and days to his mother, James had been packed onto a train, sending him to be planted in a school that would help grow him into a man. Each summer when James would come home and leave again bits of his boyishness would wilt and fall off and age would emerge.

While time forgives the young it shows cruelty to the old, and Mr. and Mrs. Potter, who'd had James after most would've already long given up on children, grew weak and fragile as their son grew strong. By James' 19th birthday his father was gone, taken by an illness that was not sorry for the empty chair at James' birthday dinner. It had been a somber meal but James had still known he was being celebrated. His best friends from school had all been there, and so had the girl who in a few months time would be his wife. His mother had lit the birthday candles and everybody had told him that he was loved.

After his mother had died he was still not afraid of being unloved or of loosing his importance. In bed he was never alone. His wife had always been there, picking up where his mother left off, stroking his hair and whispering to soothe his anxious mind, "Everything will be all right angel, you'll see at your birthday next year."

Though this hadn't become true because birthdays aren't guaranteed as the James of ten had believed them to be. Birthdays aren't celebrated because they are written in stone.

The year after James Potter was killed spring came late. Rain and hail beat against his headstone and ice-cold water seeped into his coffin. The sky remained pearl grey and flowers were unwilling to bloom. Sadness overcame many; eyes did not remain dry for long.

"'_That corpse you planted last year in your garden,_

_'Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?_

_'Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?"_

_--T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land_

Submit Review Report Possible Abuse Add Story to Favorites Add Story to Story Alert Add Author to Favorites Add Author to Author Alert Add Story to C2 Archive 1. RonFleur Forbidden Flower2. BellatrixRegulus The Warrior and Prince3. James Potter A Pig in Mud 


	15. Kendra Dumbledore

**Celebrations**

_(Kendra)_

**By mustardgirl1128**

I have three children.

I have a husband.

That makes five birthdays a year.

Percival, Albus, Aberforth, Ariana, and me.

* * *

Percival's is the seventh of January.

Every year, we have a celebration. I bake a large cake and we eat his favorite food, roast pork. We sing after dinner, and Albus always tells his father what he's done well this year. We tend to laugh harder each year.

Aberforth then will tell his father why he is such a 'bloody fantastic dad' in his own words. Every year, I tell him not to use such language. Every year, Percy waves it away and listens with secret tears beneath his eyelids to my usually gruff son become—well, sentimental.

Ariana is too young, usually. She is three when she first begins her own tradition: She sings a song in her baby voice for her dear father, and this makes him actually shed a tear or two the first (and only) time she does it.

But now, Percy is gone. Albus is at school—Aberforth is in his own world. Ariana is not right. She's not the daughter who sang a song for my husband. She is the same physically, but she does not have the same mind.

* * *

Albus' is the thirtieth of May. We have an outdoor dinner, but 'never too much hassle' because Albus is rather humble about his birthdays.

Naturally, that means we all go overboard.

Aberforth chooses to simply say to his brother, "Another good year, then, Al," and smile. And Albus likes this. I can tell—I am his mother. He smiles back and claps Aberforth on the back.

Well, yes, not much brotherly interaction, but it's something.

Ariana is still much too young. She smiled for the first time on his birthday one year, but that is really all. But Albus doesn't mind. He rocks her to sleep on May thirtieth. That's _his_ present to _her._ And it's a present to himself, too, because he loves doing it so much.

Percy and I always get him a few presents: A book, perhaps, or a new game, and always a handful of lemon drops. They are his favorite candy.

But now, Percy is gone. Albus is at school—Aberforth is in his own world. Ariana is not right. She's not the girl who smiled for her brother on his birthday. She is the same physically, but she does not have the same mind.

* * *

Aberforth's birthday is September eighteenth. He loves it. "It's finally fall on my birthday. The leaves are falling, the sky is blue, and it's all perfect."

He's never been particularly poetic, nor vocal, but that, I think, is the best thing he's ever said.

Albus creates an annual poem for his brother. He reads it, and it always makes me cry. My eldest has a way with words, I've heard, and I quite agree.

Ariana is so young; all she does is sleep through his birthday dinner, which we have outside at his request. But every year he asks us if he can show her the goats. And we say yes.

They come back nearly an hour later, and he's laughing, and she's still awake. We know, then, that the two will have a strong connection.

Percy and I usually give him candy. Lots and lots of it, and he saves it up. He gives some to Albus, some to Ariana, some even to Percival and me. He hands them to his friends, to _our _friends. And it always makes us happy. _We have raised a good son_, we think.

But now, Percy is gone. Albus is at school—Aberforth is in his own world. Ariana is not right. She's not the girl who saw those goats on her brother's birthday. She is the same physically, but she does not have the same mind.

* * *

Ariana's birthday is never much. It is August twelfth. She is young, ever so young, and so we give her new clothes and a piece of candy or two. Albus and Aberforth fuss over her, and spend almost the whole day making dinner for us—and for their only sister.

"You know, Kendra, we really should think of having more children. Look how well they go together. Look how Abe helps Al so readily, all for their sister."

I turn and smile and Percy. "You say that every year, darling. I don't know if I could _handle_ another child."

He laughs and strokes my hair. "I know I can. You can do it, Kendra. You can do whatever you want to do."

And I believe him. Before he goes away, we talk of another baby. We talk _seriously_. And we almost do it.

But now, Percy is gone. Albus is at school—Aberforth is in his own world. Ariana is not right. She's not the girl who eats her brothers' homemade meals once a year. She is the same physically, but she does not have the same mind.

* * *

My own birthday is the twenty-eighth of November. Percy takes the day off work and helps the boys cook me a brunch in bed.

Albus composes something for me and has Aberforth sing it. Or he writes a poem and has Aberforth, the actor in the family, recite it dramatically. Or he makes up a silly song and dance, and Ariana and I watch as they do it, finally falling over from laughing so hard.

But now, Percy is gone. Albus is at school—Aberforth is in his own world. Ariana is not right. She's not the girl who watched her families' antics with me. She is the same physically, but she does not have the same mind.

* * *

Our birthdays used to be so fun. They were filled with laughter, happiness, hugs, and love.

But now, Percival has left. He's gone to Azkaban, where he shall surely die.

Albus is at school, throwing himself into his studies to get his mind off it all.

Aberforth is in his own world. He tries to busy himself with goats and memories. He still seeks special time with his sister, but it is never the same. He never comes back laughing.

And Ariana is not right. She is not the girl who sang a song for her father. She is not the girl who smiled for the first time on her brother's birthday. She is not the girl who saw the goats on her _other_ brother's birthday. She is not the girl who ate those homemade meals. She is not the girl who watched the birthdays pass by with me.

She is here physically, but mentally, she might as well be with Percival.

* * *

Our birthdays nowadays are quiet, in-door, fast celebrations. We sing "Happy Birthday" and give the presents quickly, and then we pretend as if nothing has happened.

On Percival's birthday, we act like it's just another day, but every year Albus sends a poem to the family. Aberforth does not go out to the goats as much.

Ariana, of course, is oblivious. She wonders why she gets the poem as a special treat, and she asks, "Why isn't Abe with the goats?" fairly often.

We always say, "No good reason." Ariana, my poor, dear Ariana, is kept in the dark about many things.

* * *

On her own birthday, we give her presents. She doesn't know why. "Mummy, why did Al look sad today?"

"Mummy, why are you crying in your room, all alone?"

"Mummy, why isn't Abe going out to his goats?"

"Mummy, where's Daddy?"

"It's nothing, Ariana. I—I read a sad book. Abe is taking a break today. Daddy will be home soon, sweetie."

Once Albus told her is was her birthday. "But Al," she said, "what's a birthday?"

Ariana…kept in the dark about so much, including her own birthday.

* * *

Our birthdays meant something so long ago.

But now, Percy is gone. Albus is at school—Aberforth is in his own world. Ariana is not right. She's not the girl that she was once. She is the same physically, but she does not have the same mind.

* * *

I have three children.

One does not know what a birthday is.

That's three ce_lebrated_ birthdays in all.

Albus, Aberforth, and me.

Ariana's and Percival's will never be the same.


	16. Madam Pince

**Definitely Ambivalent**

_(Madam Pince)_

By Alex the Anachronistic

Irma fancied for all her years that she was definitely ambivalent about her birthday, December 17th. In her earliest days, she eagerly anticipated—like any reasonable child—the distinguished mark of being A Year Older, and thus A Year Closer To Going To Hogwarts. Growing up in a largely wizarding community in Southampton, though not within a large family, her grandparents Merlona and Diophantus stressed the importance of making good with her life through education. Every day closer to her birthday was a step towards gaining the 'golden key of knowledge,' the key that would unlock the world for her private individual understanding.

The key analogy came from Diophantus, who had been a very well-read man in his time, though a simple one. When he administered his frequent tirades on the subject to his young granddaughter, Irma would relish imagining the day she received that figurative key. Only, at the time, she did not understand fully that it was figurative, and the vision in her mind involved her fingers fumbling about in her pocket, feeling the worn metal which somehow would bloat her head with information and insight.

Merlona was supremely more intelligent than her husband, and they both knew it, but the loving camaraderie they shared was too deep for this fact to be a hindrance. Instead of filling little Irma's head with incalculable fantasies, she would instead devote her time to teaching the girl in every subject she knew. Reading came naturally to Irma, as did writing, arithmancy, simple arithmetic, and geometry. Music upon the piano and lute came only slowly, and painfully. Potions concepts were mere common sense to her, as were the processes of caring for plants. Nevertheless, though she was so talented in her own right, Irma found herself almost always ensconced in a book, voracious to read the talents of others. Merlona said this was very humble of her, though her mother Hederna called it lazy.

Hederna was a bad mum, in all respects, though Irma did not know that at the time. While Merlona and Diophantus had made her life beautiful, when she stayed for periods with her mother it was not; it was clearly wretched, to be frank. Hederna drank, smoked, went out in the evening and did not return until the early morn, and almost always was hung over with drugs. On her behalf, she never let her daughter be exposed to any of these vile substances, and when she returned earlier than usual 'with a friend', she turned on the wireless in Irma's room to prevent the girl from hearing the groans and moans. Though she never straight-out said it, Irma was aware that she was an unwanted child, though not a despised one. Hederna did her best, and Irma never bore her mother any grudges; she just could not bring herself to weep at the woman's funeral.

All this said, Merlona and Diophantus took Irma away to their cottage on the estate of Merlona's older brother Sir Elgar Haie, where they attained a fairly docile and peaceful existence. Irma liked Sir Elgar; he had a magnificent huge library. Even though he gave her a shetland pony for her ninth birthday, since Merlona was concerned about the girl's getting enough exercise and sunshine, Irma was definitely ambivalent about it, and only played with the pony as much as was expected of her every day. When an hour or two had passed, depending on the weather outside, she eagerly returned to the dismally-lit hall of tomes. After a while, Merlona did give up on her granddaughter's unhealthily pale complexion and made the girl wear a lot of dark red and crimson, 'to give her color'. It was evident, though, that she was still tickled pink at the fact she had made her daughter's daughter a scholar where she had failed in this respect for her own daughter.

Irma's birthdays at home were pleasant, and, since the date almost consistently coincided with the first day or two of winter holiday, she never had to spend a birthday at Hogwarts. Although, of course, her birthday was more of an afterthought to the almighty Christmas Holiday, which she liked well enough for the good spirits floating about but disliked for the outmoded religious symbols. The only aspect of her mother that she carried was a profound disillusionment concerning Christianity. Other than this cynical shell, she was definitely ambivalent about the fact that she had to share a birthday so close in proximity to baby Jesus. Especially because of the fact that all of the best sweets were created in the season—German springerle and auchdekerle, Viennese crescents, Dutch cinnamon crosses, bonbons, chocolate liqueurs . . . and gingerbread.

Hogwarts, she discovered over the years, was a lonely place—not conducive to creative inspiration, save when it felt like it was completely empty. Admitted as a definite Ravenclaw, without a word of hesitation from the Sorting Hat, Irma made her grandmother proud by attaining the among best scores in all her subjects excepting Choir and Chants class. Despite her achievements academically, she remained an outcast for her ambition and keen introversion, and only had the sole friend of Argus Filch. Argus was a nice squib boy that the headmaster kindly kept around, just a year or two older than her. Easily, they became lovers in his last year of schooling, and never parted afterwards. After the deaths of Diophantus and Merlona respectively, and after Irma had attained her satisfying job of librarian in the great wizarding school, they spent every one of her birthdays in the Room of Requirement, so full of mistletoe they had no choice but to kiss each other.

December 17th, 1994.

The Yule Ball was happening upon this date. Irma had dressed herself in a great long and warm burgundy dress, covered by a hood trimmed with fur of mink, and she admired her slender figure in the mirror. If there was nothing else she liked about her appearance—dark brown eyes, a hawklike nose just emulating Snape's, a pointed chin and what she supposed might be the hint of shadow on her upper lip—she stood tall, lean, and proud, like a queen. Argus liked her for her quiet radiating confidence, she knew, and her towering figure it was the most efficient way to keep him from worrying. She felt that she was going to be compared to the very stylish Madame Maxime by the other women—everyone was, actually—and she hoped to keep her social place as one of the most well-dressed female staff members. It was the only place she had in their little society, actually, besides that boring title of knowing the location of any possibly-obtainable information known to the wizarding world, and she fought to keep it.

Argus looked ruddily smart and cheeky as usual, an uncomfortable green plaid bow-tie at his chin and an elegant cream suit. He had a hard time keeping up with her latest wearable transfigurations, but she did help him out here and there. Tenderly, she waved her wand at his bow-tie to make the color match her dress.

"Thank you; you look absolutely stunning, my dear," he commented, grinning enough for her to catch a glimpse of the gold fillings in the back of his molars. He went to Muggle dentists for his teeth, for some unconventional reason that Pince could not remember. Fondly patting his cheek, she went back to the boudoir and poked at her hairpins.

"Is the Oriental flair a bit too much?" she queried aloud, more to herself than the unknowledgeable Argus. "Yes, I would say so. No, true, it does add line to the configuration. Fine, I'll leave the diamond-end pin and take out the parriot."

"It is lovely either way," he suggested, but more due to circumstance than anything else. His opinion in these matters was usually disregarded, and even if she took note of it, she would be definitely ambivalent.

Nodding at her reflection, deciding to leave both pins after all _and _add a pussy-willow branch for good luck, Pince took her lover's arm and led him down to the Great Hall.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

Dinner was even more excellent as usual, though Pince made sure she spent most of the time jabbering away to Filch so that she would not eat too much, and she kept having to train her eyes away from a certain younger potions master that seemed like he wanted to try her under the mistletoe.

The music was loud, not necessarily as heavy as the Muggle rock that Pince listened to when Argus was not about, but not very good either. Irma found herself definitely ambivalent to what the singers considered daring crescendoes. She found herself ready to smack her head on the table when the singers rolled up their sleeves, to which the audience whispered a trained 'ooh!' with the same amount of combined horror and thrill that a Muggle singer would emancipate from the masses by throwing his shirt on the ground. It was really too dreadful to Irma.

After a few attempts at dancing among the students—just enough to show she was not a tired old crone like McGonagall, yet!--she led Argus outside.

"Should we get married, sometime?" he asked her once they were safely perched on a stone bench far from the blaring lights and music.

She looked at him, adoration in her eyes, but she shook her head. "No, Argus. We can't marry. You know that very well; I've never wanted to be married, and I never want to be."

"We would be able to sleep--together!--every night in peace, my dear."

"And that's what destroys a perfectly lovely relationship, Argus. You know my views."

He sighed, a cloud of haze seeping from his nostrils and mouth into the dark of the cold night. "Well, thought I might as well see if you changed your mind. I've only asked you three times in the past six years, after all."

She put her arm around his shoulder and kissed him firmly upon the lips, leaning against his strong, wiry frame for support. If he had any doubts about her love for him, this was her declaration. In response, he wrapped his arms around her trim waist, letting passion take over him as they devoured each others' mouths in a serene silence.

A snapping noise caught their attention, and hastily the lovers reacted. Voices were approaching, and they quickly ducked behind the nearest shrub, Argus yanking his beautiful woman into a mound of snow, their lips still pressed together in harmony. Pince gave a sharp giggle, though muffled it against his chest, and they listened.

The first was definitely Snape talking, probably with that Victor Karakoff, from the sound of it. They were not long in passing, and their voices were too low to discern the actual words they said, but their urgent tones cut through the night. Something was wrong with them.

It spoiled the mood for Argus and Pince, who ended up dodging away stealthily out of the garden, narrowly missing an encounter with one or two other pairs of lovebirds who had ducked away from the dance floor, one of these being Hagrid and Maxime. (For your information.)

Wet, cold, and somewhat disturbed, Pince and Argus went to the librarian's lovely room, hidden behind a secret panel in an alcove in the library. Since Filch's room was so dreary and full of cleaning supplies—plus the fact it lacked a certain aesthetic sense—they typically made love here.

Not really emotionally tuned to the situation as Irma, Argus began to undo his suit buttons and laid his damp jacket on a chair. "You're up for it tonight, I'm sure," he suggested warmly, laying down his clothes as neatly as possible as he discarded them—shoes, socks, shirt, trousers . . .

"Argus, I'm worried."

Not exactly the most inspiring thing to tell a man sitting quite naked on her bed, but Filch was familiar with her idiosyncrasies.

"Because of Snape and that goat Karakoff?"

"Rather. I don't know why we had to have this tournament, Argus. I know it wasn't really in our capability to put an end to it, after all, but we might have persuaded Dumbledore to make it . . . less grandiose. I believe he is pining for the old times; that is the only reason he brought this back, I'm sure of it. But really . . . I think that he's being a bit too self-centered."

"This isn't just fun and games, is what you're trying to say," Filch suggested helpfully, trying to understand it himself. "It's scaring you because of the eerie feeling about the whole thing." He nodded in agreement. "I would say there was. Moody himself thinks there's some unearthly vibe in the air. He might be a bit off his rocker, but I do think he got a point this time."

"Well, what do we do?" Pince had a habit of wanting action taken immediately, and few things could stop her once she had her mind set upon doing something.

One reason she tended to be more definitely ambivalent than usual was because of Argus calm commonsense nature.

"We don't do anything until we have something definite we _can _do!" He was serious, and Irma saw the truth in the statement.

"That's right," she breathed, "We can't do anything until there is really something that needs doing. The only thing we can do is keep our eyes and ears open." She looked at him. "You really ought to be patrolling the halls tonight, you know."

"I know. But it's your birthday, Irma. You are well aware that I would rather miss a hundred thousand evenings with Mrs. Norris than one as special as tonight with you."

Turning flush with his flattery, Pince began to remove the pins from her hair, laying them beside her glasses and lace cuffs. In a few very quick minutes, she was as nude as a baby in her lover's arms, definitely _not_ ambivalent about the way she felt for Argus.


	17. Lavender Brown

**Aparecium**

_(Lavender)_

**by Sandshrew777**

I always wanted the best of both worlds. I still do. But I never get it.

Except with my birthday cake.

_Nineteen lonely candles on a chocolate cake with vanilla frosting._

Every year, I always have the same cake. I've never deviated; even when I was a little girl, ever since I started getting asked what kind of cake I wanted for my birthday, I'd always ask for chocolate cake and vanilla frosting. And I always got it - the best of both worlds. Luscious chocolate and creamy vanilla. Of course, I had to share it, and I didn't mind that at all. I had my slice of the world. That's all that mattered, at the time.

But as another candle made its way into my paradise each year, I found myself being denied more and more things: baton-spinning classes; my own stationery; moving onto middle school with my primary school friends; getting into the same house as my new friend from the train, Hannah Abbott; Binky; love.

_Staring out the window at the rainy streets of London._

I never loved Ron. Not even for an instant. I liked him - I still do - but I didn't love him. It was so incredibly obvious to everyone but him that he was in love with Hermione. And Hermione was too chicken to do something about it. For all the brains that girl has, she has a real problem just trusting herself sometimes and letting go.

So I decided to help her out a little bit. Nudge her in the right direction. A little jealousy always gets a girl scheming - and I knew I was in for it with Miss Hermione soon-to-be-Weasley Granger. It was fun while it lasted, and when it was over they were together and I was alone.

_Raindrops hit the window like her tears hit the mahogany kitchen table._

Of course, nobody wanted to date me after the disgusting way I had to act with Ron - not that I had suitors lining up to ask me out of anything like that. But, still, it was another thing denied to me.

Everyone in my year had something they were known for, something that made them special. Dean was the artist, Seamus the joker, Neville the well-intentioned bumpkin, the trio the trio, and Parvati the fashionista. Yet for all of my talk about fashion and all of my clumsiness, my sarcasm, and my painting, I remained the normal one. The not-so-special one. Another thing I was denied.

_An easel in the corner of the kitchen; an unfinished picture._

I don't think they really meant to alienate me so. And I really never felt like that while I was there. But every time I look back on those days, I get this way.

And today's the worst, because it used to be the best day: my birthday.

_Today's date circled in red ink, like a red sun on the calendar on the wall behind the easel._

I never had any fancy galas or requested presents from my yearmates. But for some reason, every year at Hogwarts, when I came back from going down to the kitchens to get my cake, there would be a tawny owl waiting for me. Every year, there would be a funny little card in the owl's talons. It was never signed.

I never thought of him as my secret admirer - and what right had I to call him a 'him', anyway? (But I still did it, and I still do.)

And maybe it's foolish of me, but I was hoping that this year - my first year away from Hogwarts - my card-sender would come to the door of my flat with flowers and a smile and sweep me off my feet.

_The electricity shuts off. The candles glow in the darkness: nineteen glimmers of hope._

I make my wish - it's so childish, so stupid - but I can't think of anything else.

And now I'm sitting in the darkness. I could use my wand to create some light, or try and fiddle with the fuse box, but I think I'll just wait for them to come back on; it never takes long. If there's one thing good about Muggles, it's that they won't live without their electricity for long - not if they can help it.

_The streetlight shines through the rainy window and onto her face: a cone of light into her darkness._

_The easel in the corner of the room is shrouded in darkness. If we could only see, we would see a painted hand holding a painted birthday card, opened to the bare white inside. In untidy black handwriting we see the words, "Happy 18th birthday, Lavender. Don't go too crazy with Trelawney's sherry."_

_And if, by chance, the owner of that hand had simply said some Latin and tapped her wand on that card, the final card she ever received, she would have seen the card suddenly awash in deep blue ink, with the same untidy handwriting. _

_It said: "I wonder if you'll ever figure this out. Figure me out. I like you, Lavender, so much. You're so pretty and you're so wonderful but I just can't tell you that in person. Something stops me every time, and it's sure not my Gryffindor spirit. I don't know what to do. But I hope you find these messages on all of these cards that I've been sending to you, because invisible ink is kind of expensive and I really don't want this to amount to nothing. I hope I make you laugh, Lavender. It's the best I can do for you these days. It's the best any of us can do for each other. Well, Lavender, I'm running out of room so I'll stop now. I hope one day you find these messages, because I don't think I'll ever date anyone before I know for good if we can live happily ever after or not. As always, Lavender, I'm thinking of you. Your ever-watchful, ever-hoping, ever-waiting,_

_Seamus_

_But she just sits there in the dark, waiting. Waiting to be given things instead of taking them._

_And when the lights come back on, she praises herself for waiting._


	18. Merope Gaunt

**Tom's Day**

_(Merope Gaunt)  
_

By Gilaureloth

It seems that today will be my first child's birthday. The thirty-first of December. It is not the day that I would have chosen. The last day of the year is so often dull and dreary. Birthdays are much better in the summer. I always had my birthday in the summer. But birthdays cannot always be chosen.

I've always loved birthdays, even though I was never allowed to celebrate them. I knew what they were, of course. Every year on October the 15th Father ordered me to bake Morfin a cake and set a live trap to catch another snake for Morfin to play with. Morfin was allowed a birthday because he was a boy and he could do magic.

I have never even known when my birthday was, but that didn't matter. I when I was little I would pick a day to celebrate. I would sneak out of the house and make myself a cake out of sand. I would sing quietly to myself, praying my father wouldn't hear and ruin the celebration. I drew little sand candles on the top and made a wish before blowing them out. I dreamed of the day that I could share a birthday celebration with someone. I knew my family hated me. I was a girl, and too close to being a squib. I didn't ever share my birthday with them. I wanted to share my birthday with someone who loved me.

When I first saw Tom Riddle, I knew he was the one I wanted to celebrate my birthday with. I knew he could love me the way my family did not. The problem was getting him to notice me. And so, on the day that had been my birthday for several years by then, the one that made me eighteen, I stopped Tom on his way home and asked if he would like a drink of water. He drank and immediately fell in love with me. The first question I asked him after we were married was when he was born.

We spent almost two months together. They were the happiest months of my life. Tom loved me, and I loved him, and it seemed that what we had could last forever. I was sure that he would love me as I was by then, without the potion, and what was more, I was carrying his child. If love of me could not compel him to stay, then love of the baby we had created would. So I decided to free him.

I wanted the day to be special. I planned for weeks how it would be. I would give him the antidote and the news of the baby on his birthday. What better birthday gift than news that you would be a father. And complete freedom of course. I brewed the antidote for almost a week before the day, and then put it inside a chocolate. I couldn't tell him that I'd been giving him something in his orange juice every morning since we were married. I was ashamed of what I had done. Besides, if he didn't know that his love was "my fault" then he wouldn't know that he wasn't truly in love with me.

The morning of his birthday I got up early. I had left the antidote out to cure overnight, and I still needed to wrap it. I felt Tom's solid warmth against my back and wished that I would never have to leave this bed, that nothing would ever change. I knew it wasn't right though. I had to free him.

An hour later I heard Tom get up. I took a deep steadying breath and went upstairs his birthday present in hand. Tom looked up from his breakfast at the table.

"What's the matter, dear?" he asked me. I shook my head violently, denying that anything was wrong, but at the same time feeling the tears well up in my eyes.

"Happy birthday, Tom," I whispered. I set the wrapped box down next to him and retreated to the other side of the room.

"What's this? I told you I didn't want anything. You know we don't have the money." Again, I just shook my head, not trusting myself to speak. Finally, I gestured towards the package and mouthed, "open it." He looked at me strangely and opened his mouth to protest, but I cut him off.

"I'm giving you the only thing you truly need," I swallowed and hurried on, "Your freedom."

"Dearest, whatever can you mean? I already have my freedom. Besides freedom doesn't come in such a small box." He was attempting a joke so I gave him a watery smile.

"Just open it," I pleaded. He held my gaze for several moments. I could see the love shining in his eyes. I held his gaze as long as I could. After a few minutes, I blinked and waved my hand at the box.

"Please Tom, just open it." He shrugged and started pulling the paper off the box. I watched how he slit open the tape, careful not to rip the paper. It was the little things like that I would miss. Not that he would leave me. He wouldn't. Not with the baby on the way.

He opened the box and pulled out the knitting that was on the top.

"A-A sweater? But it's a little sm… Wait. Merope? Are you?" I nodded.

"That's wonderful! We're going to have a baby. Oh, Merope, we should celebrate."

"Wait. Tom. You haven't finished opening your present." His eyes returned to the box. He reached in and pulled out a single chocolate.

"Oh Merope, you shouldn't have. I'll treasure it forever. I won't eat it."

"No, please Tom," I pleaded. The tears were coursing down my cheeks from the suspense and fear. "Eat it."

"If you want," he said. He raised the chocolate to his mouth and took a bite.

From that moment on I ceased to exist for Tom. All the happy birthdays I'd dreamed of having were gone. The only thing I had left from him was the baby I carried. It was the only reason I had to live.

The months went by and I went from poor to poorer. I traveled by foot to London, where I knew I could scrounge some food and perhaps get some money. I have been here ever since. And so, this morning, when I woke up in shelter of a recessed doorway, and found that my water had broken, I knew that my baby would be born in London.

It is not a bad place for a baby to be born. There is plenty of food in the garbage that is perfectly good, and while there isn't much for shelter, it is better than being out in the wild. But I knew I would need help with the baby. I knew nothing of how to give birth, and I didn't want to mess it up. I didn't want to kill it, no matter what the baby's father did. I began to search for a place that would take me in and let me have the baby in safety.

As I walked I noticed, more than ever, the surrounding buildings. It distracted me from the ever-growing pains in my belly and gave me something to occupy the time. The bricks were dark and glum. Along the bottom of the walls there was a pile of grayish-white snow, snaking around the bushes and jumping over the walks that led up to the stairs. Even the metal plaques that held the numbers of the houses seemed dull. A drop of rain plopped down beside me, then another. Soon I was drenched. The rain began to mingle with the tears streaming down my face. I was so worried that I wouldn't find a suitable place to have the baby, and it would die quickly if exposed to the cold, soaking rain.

I searched for nearly an hour before finding a nice, respectable-looking orphanage. The rain had turned to snow and the wind was bitterly cold. I staggered up the steps. There was a large brass knocker on the door and I reached up to knock, once, twice… but before I could knock a third time pain swamped my senses and I doubled over my huge belly.

"Just a little longer, little one, I promise," I whispered.

"Ere, what's a girl like you doing out in this storm?" I heard somewhere above me.

"Please," I stopped a moment to catch my breath, "Please let me in." The pain receded and I could finally stand upright. The woman silhouetted in the door gasped.

"You're pregnant!" she exclaimed. I opened my mouth to reply that I most certainly knew that, but the pain swept through me again, and the words never made it out of my mouth. The woman called for help and then led me in.

I spent the next hour wailing in pain on a bed in the orphanage. I had wanted the child so badly, I never thought about what it would take to get it. It took so much pain, both emotional and physical. I wasn't sure I could deal with that any longer.

Finally, with one last push, the baby left my body. I tensed, listening for the little wail that babies always make when they are first born… and it didn't come. I grew numb. All of that, and the baby hadn't lived.

"It's a boy," the woman said. I let out the breath I had been holding. She would have told me if he was dead, wouldn't she?

"Thank Merlin," I whispered, "I hope he looks like his papa." The woman looked at me strangely but must have decided not to comment.

"What will you name him, Miss?" one of the young servant girls asked.

"Tom," I said, "Tom Riddle after his father."

"What about a middle name? A child needs a middle name of his own, especially when he's named after his father." I thought a moment.

"Marvolo. After my father." I breathed. I was so tired. I closed my eyes, just for a moment, just to get some rest. In the morning I would wake up, and Tom and I would begin a new life together. We would find a home to live in, and he would grow up there. I would teach him what it is to be loved, and to love others. _He will never have to go through what I did_, I promised myself. And every year on December the thirty-first, we would celebrate his birthday.

Merope Gaunt-Riddle died an hour later, due to complications of the birth.


	19. Gilderoy Lockhart

**Spell Damage**

(Gilderoy)

**By Violin Ghost**

I pushed the door labeled _Spell Damage_ open with my back, cheerfully humming, arms laden with brown paper bags. I could have Levitated them in, I suppose, but I wanted their contents to be special, brought to the dear boy in my own arms.

As I walked along the white, austere corridor, I marveled—as I did every day—that I had such an extraordinary chance to work as a Healer in St. Mungo's and that—even more extraordinary—the administration had put me in charge of the ward I had wished to work with, after that fiasco with Healer Strout occurred. I shuddered, remembering the scream that had brought me running from the ward next door to the Janus Thickeyward, that poor man's white face, still and silent, green tendrils wrapped around his… But it was over and done with, and I was only thankful that, no matter how tragic, it had given me a chance to work with people I wanted to tend.

I stopped outside my ward, surprised to see four people seated on white chairs that had been conjured up—as there were usually very few visitors to Janus Thickey, administration had decided that no visitors' seats were to be placed outside.

"Good afternoon," I said uncertainly. "Healer Williams at your service, may I help you with anything?"

The one nearest me, a long-haired man with a scarred face, answered. "Thank you, but we're just visiting with a friend." I noticed that the one seated beside him, a beautiful blonde woman, held his hand tightly, looking solemn.

"I would like some help," pronounced the woman furthest away from me, in a dreamy sort of voice. "Could you direct me to the ward for the victims of violent Wrackspurt attacks? We can learn quite a lot from them, you know, if they aren't too traumatized by the event."

I had never heard of a Wrackspurt in all my years of training as a Healer, but said, "I would go to the First Floor, dear, creature-induced injuries and all the rest."

"Thank you," she said seriously, and she put the little girl seated on her lap back onto the floor. "I'll be back in just a few minutes, Victoire," she assured the girl, her rather large eyes even larger in sincerity.

The little blonde girl, who must have been five, frowned. "I want to go with you, Auntie Luna. I don't get to see you that often. And I want to see a Wrackspurt," she added, her sweet face lighting up with enthusiasm.

"Wrackspurts aren't real, honey," said the scarred man.

"Yes, they are," said Auntie Luna serenely, "but you can't see them, they're invisible."

The beautiful, blonde woman coughed. Auntie Luna stood up and floated away.

"Well, it was very nice meeting all of you," I said, to cover up the silence that followed, and because they all looked so somber—except for Victoire, who was looking as rebellious as my daughter ever had at the age of five. "It's so nice of you to visit, we hardly get any visitors here. I suppose you're here to see the Longbottoms?" They were the only ones who got frequent visitors. The scarred man's face might have become slightly sadder at my question, but I wasn't certain.

"Yes, we are here to see zem," answered the blonde woman evenly.

I was suddenly aware of the brown bags in my arms. I had forgotten! "Yes, well, that's very nice of you, but I must get inside, do excuse me." I fumbled my way in, aware of the family—how could the little girl be anyone's daughter but the blonde woman's?—watching me silently.

"You're late, Williams," said a cold voice. Finch, the sour-looking woman who took the morning shifts, was looking at my full arms disapprovingly, as if wondering why I hadn't Levitated them in. I put my chin up.

"I got caught up, making the cake and all, which is more than you can say you did, Delilah," I said smoothly. Her eyes narrowed.

"It isn't part of our job description—"

"I care about them, Delilah," I said simply. She scowled, gathered her things, and left without saying goodbye.

"Why were you fighting _again_, Eloise?"

I glanced around and smiled at Gilderoy, patting his head fondly. So like a little boy, I thought wistfully. "We weren't fighting, dear. We were having a discussion."

He seemed satisfied and began bouncing up and down on his bed, face flushed with excitement. "It's my birthday, it's my birthday!" he cried eagerly, grinning the smile that had charmed so many and won him five awards in a row. "I didn't remember, you know—" I felt a surge of pity as he said that, but he went on undeterred "—but then I got about a hundred letters from all sorts of witches, and they all said Happy Birthday, and Gladys Gudgeon sent me enchanted flowers!"

I looked towards his bedside table, worried, remembering what had happened to my predecessor, but I needn't have feared. I performed a few quick tests and it came up clean.

"That's… lovely, dear," I said, glancing once more at the lurid yellow flowers, which looked like nothing more than frilly cabbages. But in looking back at the flowers, I noticed that the curtains hadn't been closed off for the Longbottoms' visitors, as they usually were. They wouldn't have been able to hold them in, anyway, since there were a lot more visitors than the usual two. One, two, three, four, five… I counted six heads, one black, two red, one brown, and the now familiar ones of Neville Longbottom and his new wife, Hannah. Why were they here? Neville usually didn't like bringing guests…

"… why aren't you listening to me, Eloise?" I firmly placed my gaze back upon Gilderoy, who looked crestfallen.

"I _am_ listening, Gilderoy dear," I said soothingly. "And I have a birthday surprise just for you, too. Would you like me to go get it?"

"Oh yes, yes!" He could hardly contain his enthusiasm. Smiling fondly, if sadly, I retreated to a desk in the corner, putting the brown bags on top of it, my back to Gilderoy so he wouldn't see what I was doing.

Gilderoy had always been a mystery to me. I knew who he was, of course—Gilderoy Lockhart, famed author as well as courageous hero, at least according to his books, which really were quite extraordinary. But… what had happened to him? How had he come to be on the receiving end of such a powerful Memory Charm? My private guess was a jealous rival author, but I didn't dwell too much on it. I thought instead about the poor Gilderoy I knew and loved, who really didn't know much about what was going on and never received guests.

_He's a sweet boy, if a little full of himself sometimes, as boys are known to be,_ I mused, as I placed a candle in the middle of his chocolate cake, _and he used to be famous as well. So why doesn't he get any visitors?_

Gilderoy saddened me, too. He was so childlike and innocent, and yet—so lost, at the same time. All the occupants of the ward were lost, in their own way, but Gilderoy's situation was even sadder, because no one cared whether he was lost or not. Even Agnes, who had morphed into a sort of half-dog, still had an infrequent visitor in her son. But Gilderoy… Gilderoy had no one.

"Is the surprise all ready now, Eloise?" came an eager call from his bed.

"Nearly, dear," I said over my shoulder, quickly lighting the candle with a distracted wave of my wand. I picked the cake up carefully and waited for the Longbottoms' departing visitors to pass—they were leaving—before crossing over to Gilderoy's bed. His face lit up with innocent joy, and something in the hungry expression on his face as he stared at the cake—something like longing, but longing for what, I was quite sure he didn't know—caused a pang to go through me. I swallowed against the lump in my throat.

"Happy birthday, dear," I said, knowing he wouldn't notice my choked voice, oblivious and self-absorbed boy that he was. And he deserved to be self-absorbed today, of all days.

I wasn't disappointed. Instead of asking why my smile was so watery, instead of wondering why my voice trembled, instead of even blowing the single candle on his cake out, he called to the Longbottoms' visitors, who were just departing,

"It's my birthday today, it's my birthday today!"

But they didn't hear. Their heads were bowed, and they were all brooding over their visit, I knew. Even the little girl, who had come in with her parents and Auntie Luna to fetch the visitors, looked appropriately mournful. Being one of the few who knew the sad story of the Longbottoms, I understood, but… I wished they had heard and paid Gilderoy attention, all the same.

"It's my birthday, really, it is!" he continued to cry, even as the group continued heedlessly towards the door. I thought I heard a hint of desperation in Gilderoy's voice. My eyes, not for the first time today, filled with emotion. It was almost as if I was watching a preview of what Gilderoy's life would always be.

"It's… my birthday…" he said in a defeated murmur, head drooping, gold hair falling into those blue, blue eyes, realizing that they couldn't hear him, that perhaps no one would ever hear him.

But someone heard. Miraculously, the little girl heard, and her eyes snapped towards poor Gilderoy. She spotted the cake, smiled a sweet little-girl smile, and tugged at her mother's skirt. "Look, _Maman_! It's his birthday!"

At Victoire's exclamation, the group turned as one to consider Gilderoy, whose face lit up with such beautiful expectation that I was mildly surprised their hearts didn't break, as mine did.

And there was silence.

The little girl promptly shattered it with a childishly innocent suggestion. "Let's sing him happy birthday!"

Some restless muttering, a few incoherent answers, and a great deal of uncomfortable fidgeting occurred, not helped in the least by Gilderoy saying, brightly, "Well, go on, then!" Every single one of them looked ill at ease, especially the red-headed boy who looked, for some inexplicable reason, unduly guilty. Then a sweet, vague voice began.

"_Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you…_" Auntie Luna sang, a faraway look on her face. Only Victoire joined in, and their companions were left staring at them as they completed the song.

"You didn't sing," accused Victoire, "so we have to start again."

The black-haired one turned to look almost beseechingly at me, but I answered with a silent plea of my own: _Please._

He nodded, as if coming to a decision, and said in a quiet voice, "Let's sing for the professor."

And they all did. They sang with as much gusto as could be mustered under the circumstances, and when they were done, the brown-haired witch magicked a handsome purple quill out of thin air and handed it to him, pink in the face, muttering embarrassedly about knowing that lilac was his favorite color, and hoping he would have many more birthdays to come.

And then it suddenly hit me with crashing conviction: _Gilderoy wasn't alone_. He would never be truly lost, if only one little girl—and a strange aunt or two—heard him.

Now my restrained tears spilled over, even as I heard him say cheerfully, "Would you all like my autograph? I can sign with this new feather, now."


	20. Teddy Lupin

**seventeen**

_(Teddy)_

**by Avindara Nirvene**

The Burrow is alive with people, all chattering happily, sharing glasses of grape juice and enjoying Molly Weasley's delicious dishes. The Burrow is alive. This was Teddy's first thought – once he knew words, once he knew descriptions.

He visits Arthur and Molly's house every Tuesday and Saturday during summer and Christmas break, and before Hogwarts – almost every day. Uncle Percy, Aunt Audrey, and the twins Molly Jr. and Lucy still live there with the grandparents – Aunt Molly claims the Burrow is too quiet without any children. Teddy finds it odd that out of all of the people who could have stayed – Uncle Bill's family, Uncle Charlie's family, Uncle George's, Uncle Ron's, Aunt Ginny's – it was Percy's who did. Needless to say, it would have been louder if it had been _any_ of the others who'd stayed.

Teddy wishes he had met Fred Weasley – _Uncle_ Fred Weasley - the first – they all spoke of him with the greatest admiration and a smile pressed upon their lips like light (yet it was taut and filled with sorrow) – they said he was funny, and charming, clever, and – Uncle George's other half. Teddy doubted he'd survive if his other half died. He wouldn't survive if anyone important to him died – Andromeda, Harry, Arthur, Victoire... Fred probably would have made this day more fun, more special than ever to Teddy.

He also wishes he could have met little Dobby, a house-elf who Mrs. Luna Scamandar spoke most fondly of – one who had saved many lives; Mad-Eye Moody, whose tales were told with dramatic gestures from Uncle Bill, of his magical eye and noble sacrifices; Charity Burbage, who was missed greatly by Minister Shacklebolt – who once had her for a Muggle Studies teacher.

(He isn't quite sure if he wanted to meet Severus Snape – who, according to his godfather Harry, sacrificed and used his entire life to help defeat the Dark Lord and was one of the bravest men of the world but was said to have a hooked nose and a personality to match.)

But most of all, he wishes to have met his parents: Nymphadora Tonks-Lupin and Remus Lupin. Many stories were told to him – about their nobility and sacrifice, as well as his mother's clumsiness, his father's werewolf status. It was almost as if he knew them – but he didn't, really. He doesn't know what Dad would do if he threw a temper tantrum, or what Mum would do if he asked for an ice-cream.

_Make a wish. _Every year on his birthday, he wishes the same. To meet his parents, Tonks and Remus Lupin, to see them smile at their little boy and tousle his electric-blue hair. He longed to see his mother change her nose into different shapes, as Aunt Hermione had described. He longed to watch his father teach – he was a very good teacher, was what Percy so pompously told him. A very good one.

Each year, it is the same. The party takes place at the Burrow – with everyone there – the Weasleys, the Potters, several former Order and DA members - and Grandmum Molly cooking up a delectable storm, including a massive cake to set the mood properly. After the dinner was consumed, he would be stood in front of the enormous dessert and count the candles on it. Everyone would sing loudly and off-key to him, and he would make a wish and blow the candles carefully, making sure he never spat in the food, as James Sirius sometimes did when he was hasty. It was always the same exact wish, and each year, he was let down. He knew it wouldn't come true – they couldn't just come bounding out of their graves and start scolding him for slathering mud all over the silk carpet, as his gran did.

He knew that, but still, he wished. He couldn't help himself.

This year, he resolves, it will be different. Different ideas, different thoughts. He is seventeen years old already, for goodness's sake, coming of age - and time to let go of such childish ideas. His parents would never come back – they would stay only in his heart and everyone's memories, and he had to accept that. It is time for more reasonable wishes and thoughts. What he was to do after he left Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry – was he to apply for work directly at the Ministry of Magic? All his life he had hoped to become an Auror like his mother (though, hopefully, with better grades in Stealth and Tracking). Was he to marry his childhood sweetheart, the beautiful Victoire Weasley, soon after she left school? They were already thinking about marriage, it looked as if she was dropping subtle hints about it – pointing out an engagement ring in a jewelry shop while they were out shopping, a satin bridal gown a girl was wearing in a movie they were watching, though he wasn't too sure about the until-death-till-us-part devotion part as of yet. Was he to travel the world, as Albus Dumbledore, a famous man had wanted to but never did?

It certainly sounded like fun; he would be able to see those infamous Egypt pyramids Auntie Ginny wasn't allowed to see then – but what about the rest of his plans?

_Was that what he really wanted?_

Puzzling this over, he indulges in a bit of shepherd's pie. Grandmum Molly smiles at him, sliding another slice onto his already full plate, while fussing over how skinny he is – "All the food Andromeda has given you has all gone nowhere!" Victoire sits next to him, munching cheerfully on a salad, and all of the other Weasley children were off, playing Quidditch in the clearing behind the house except eight-year-old Hugo Weasley, who was sitting on the couch, reading. (When Aunt Molly sighed and announced to the rest that Hugo was to be another Percy, Uncle Ron quietly whispered – "Goodness, don't know if that'll be a good or bad thing!" and Aunt Hermione promptly hit him round the head, resulting in a satisfying "Ow!")

In a few minutes, a huge mountain of icing would make its way to the already-groaning table by the wand of Granddad Arthur, and the shrill voice of Audrey Weasley would send the kids flying inside, all noisy and excited, through the doorway and onto their disarray of seats, eagerly anticipating. The song would be sung, and Teddy was to make a wish and blow on the candles. Just as usual.

Only one thing would be different this time – the wish Teddy is to make. He knows he shouldn't place so much upon it – it was just a tradition and a wish, would probably never come true – but he couldn't help but feel nervous. What was his wish to be – one about his big-picture future plans, or something little, like the want for the dragon-hide boots Andromeda just wouldn't get him?

That sounded ridiculous even in his head. _Of course _it had to be something big, something important – like nuptials or careers. He was simply too old to be hoping for the newest Firebolt (besides, he didn't even need one at the moment, it just looked good on its rack). But what was he to wish for?

Two more minutes.

_Silly, _he thought, _that wish isn't so much. It's not guaranteed to come true, anyway. _But still, he mused over all of his requests. Was it to be selfless – like wanting world peace (not that it would happen) or a successful campaign against Squib-prejudice?

_What was it to be?_

"Cake time!" calls Aunt Audrey, and a stampede of footsteps is heard as the others near the back door. The cake is wobbling over, inch by inch – Teddy looks round and sees Hugo holding Arthur's wand, his face screwed up in concentration, while Arthur encourages him on (but Teddy could see Bill behind them, his wand raised in the air, as if balancing the cake.)

One more minute.

"Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear _Ted-_dy, happy birthday to you!" A chorus of _very _off-tune voices spring together, a small finger reaches in the cake (Lorcan's pinky, he wondered if it was soft), and everyone is watching Teddy expectantly…

He looks back at them, one by one – Andromeda, smiling beautifully, Uncle Harry, smiling widely, Albus Severus, smiling curiously, Luna, smiling serenely, Victoire, smiling brightly.

A small smile lights up his own face, and lips pucker – the flickering flames diminishes, the candles blown.

The slight smoke billows out the window, and a shiver tells Teddy he had done the right thing.

Aunt Hannah beams at him, and begins cutting the cake, as it would seem, into fifty slices. Uncle Neville puts his hands around her eyes, like a blindfold, and she swats him playfully. "Would you prefer I saw off your fingers, as opposed to this lovely young man's seventeenth birthday cake?"

Teddy smiles, and as he and Lily Luna pass out paper plates full of cake, he feels a small tug on his hand. Victoire Weasley, beckoning at him. He slips out of the crowd, and follows her – a plate of cake balanced on each hand, out the back door and into the clearing they used for Quidditch.

She sits on the side, and he hands her a plate of cake.

"So, what did you wish for?" she asks conversationally, feeding him a bite of cake.

Teddy swallows the icing, and answers mischievously, "It wouldn't come true if I told you." before hurling the cake into her face and running off.

"Ted Remus Lupin, you are so dead!" she yells at him, and begins chasing after him, cake in hand.

It isn't too long before she catches up with him, and smashes the other cake into his shoulder.

"Not tall enough?" he laughs, picks her up and swings her around, before leaning in for a kiss – a rather sticky one.

There is a round of applause, and they turn to see the whole lot of people sitting on the side, watching them. Cat calls fill the air – courtesy of Louis and James Sirius, and even Andromeda gives an approving nod.

Voices float past – Deana, Seamus and Lisa's daughter, inquires: "Is it time to give presents yet?" Dedalus Diggle, a surviving Order member, talks animatedly to Hestia Jones, who giggles, listening. Dominique, Roxanne, and the Macmillians' daughter squeal, and began chattering about the boys in their year.

Teddy feels his parents' presence there, their blurry figures behind the rest of the people, smiling and laughing.

_Stay happy, Tonks and Remus. Stay happy, everyone.  
_


	21. Helena Ravenclaw

Her Birthday Tears

_(Helena Ravenclaw/The Grey Lady)_

**By TheWordFountain**

The small black-haired girl closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She was in a small room, standing on a chair, with a teeny cake covered with six wax candles in front of her. Today was her sixth birthday and it was the second time that she was making this wish.

_I wish that Mummy would get her dream come true._

The girl quickly opened her dark eyes to reveal a young, black-haired woman - her mother - sitting on the other side of the cake, leaning over pieces of parchment with drawings, graphs and calculations that were barely understandable.

She blew at the candles as hard as she could and even when there was no more breath in her lungs, she still continued, spit flying from her mouth and dousing them.

The girl smiled triumphantly. "Look, Mummy! I blew out all the candles!"

Her mother looked up quickly and muttered, "Yes, that is great, Helena. Mummy is working."

Helena's face fell as she felt a stab at her heart. Mummy was working. That was such a well-known phrase.

A loud thumping began echoing through the house and Helena jumped down from her chair and tripped on her dress, falling on her knees. They stung badly now, the wood floor beneath her was not very smooth.

Helena took a glance up at her mother to see if she would help, but she was not fazed in the least bit. She continued to pour over her pages of castles and lists.

The thumping began again and Helena pulled herself back up, feeling sharp pains in her knees. She probably had splinters now. When she reached the front door, Helena stood on her tippy-toes and reached as far up as she could to get the doorknob. She missed and then tried again, finally managing to open the door. A loud sound of jeers and rude words hit her ears as she saw a few people, even some children, standing at her front door with tomatoes.

Helena glanced at the door and saw that there was a large amount of food sliding down it. She tried to close the door quickly, but a small kid threw a tomato at her, causing a large amount of more food and objects to hit her. She fell back onto her bottom, and heard a loud tearing sound. Her brand new dress that she had gotten for her birthday, ruined.

She could feel tears welling up in her eyes and a lump form in her throat as she began crawling towards the door. Helena pushed with her back as she hid behind the door and closed it, hearing a loud, satisfactory click.

Why? Why did this happen so often? Was it really so wrong that her mum had her? Was she that bad of a child?

Helena began staring darkly at a painting mounted on the wall opposite her. She would not cry. _She would not cry._

The painting in front of her flew off the wall abruptly and began ricocheting off the corridor walls on her left, but Helena did not flinch or jump. She only continued to stare at the painting in anger and then when she began to feel bored she jerked her eyes away from the painting and a loud crash ensued. It had probably fallen on the floor.

She stood up and walked towards the kitchen, her mother was still working. "Mommy!" she pouted.

"What?" her mother snapped as she laid her eyes upon her daughter covered in dirt. She sighed. "What did you do? Never mind. I do not want to hear it. Go clean yourself up. Sir Godric and the others are coming soon, and you must look presentable."

Helena opened her mouth to protest, but her mum looked back at her papers. Helena huffed as she walked down the small, dark hallway to her room. Why was her mum so blind?

She walked in and closed the door behind her as she searched through her few dresses. She would wear the dark green one. Helena set it softly on her bed and then a loud bang sounded. She jumped, thinking that it might be another mob, but then realized it was probably the people her mum was expecting.

"Helena, get the door!" she heard.

Helena ran a hand through her hair, and looked down at her dress. She could not get the door and greet their guests in such a gross fashion, but her mum would be terribly mad at her if she took her bath and changed first. She hopped from foot to foot in indecision, but then forced herself to run towards the front door and hurriedly open it.

The tall red-headed man at the door had a finger in his mouth, as if he had just finished eating something, and was staring around the foyer as if expecting someone.

"Down here, Sir Godric," Helena whispered.

He jumped back in surprised and gave a jubilant smile. "Helena! How are you, darling?" He bent down and scooped her up in his arms. "By the way, the tomatoes on your door are very tasty!"

Helena giggled as she hugged him around the neck. "It is my birthday today!"

"What? How old are you?" He put her on the floor and his eyes widened in surprise. "Oh dear. What happened to you?"

Helena looked down at her dress and then flinched. She turned her head towards the corner of the room and ignored Sir Godric's gaze, along with Lady Helga and Sir Salazar's – who had both just appeared.

Lady Helga leaned down next to Helena and pulled a green leaf out of her hair. "How about we go get you cleaned up, yes?" she asked sweetly.

Helena nodded as she felt the lump rise up. She threw her arms around Helga's neck and began crying as she felt herself get lifted into the air and carried away.

_Maybe she would cry just this one time._

--

Lady Helena sighed as she glared at the room around her. It was almost exactly like the Ravenclaw Tower. The same colors, blue and bronze, and desks with parchment that had graphs, lists, drawings of castles, and calculations that she still did not understand were all over and piled high. There was a tall, long bookshelf that took up one whole wall and on the opposite side of the room where the whole wall was made of glass, there were two couches that were cushiony and perfect for reading.

No one knew about this room. This room had been a secret from its very beginning and no student had ever stumbled upon it. Helena made her way over to the giant bookshelf and took the book at the very end of the row. She flipped through the pages, until she got a third of the way through, and then picked up a pencil and wrote in a small scribble. "1,016/1,000."

Helena slammed the book closed and threw it back on the bookshelf. She made her way over to the opposite end of the room and looked out of the giant window at all the witches and wizards talking and laughing together lively.

_Her mum had created her dream: Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry._

She raised a shaking hand to her face.

One thousand and sixteen birthdays and one thousand Deathday birthdays.

A few ghostly tears began running their way down her face.

_Maybe she would cry for just one more time._


	22. Andromeda Black

**Masquerade**

_(Andromeda)_

**By Cuban Sombrero Gal**

**i. ****taunting fires, touching wires, been believing liars**

_Who wants to separate  
The world we know from our beliefs  
And who sees only black and white  
Distinguish loss from sacrifice  
Some day we may come to peace  
With the world within ourselves_

"How come Andy gets presents, Mother, and I don't?"

Five year old Narcissa's face is contorted into a frown as she watches her older sister unwrap a bracelet; Andromeda's delicate fingers claw at the paper as she tears it off, exposing red rubies that glisten in the sunlight like diamonds.  
"It's _my _birthday Cissy," Andromeda replies, not really interested in her sister's complaints as she tears the paper from another present, all her Black formality and regality misplaced for just a second amidst the sparkling silver wrapping paper and the promise of a toy broomstick. "_I'm _the one turning seven today…"

"It's still not fair."

"Life isn't fair, Narcissa." It's such a harsh statement for a seven year old girl to mutter, and yet, in the dusty drawing room of velvet curtains and haunting silence, it doesn't seem out of place. Druella glances at her, a mixture of pride and humanity smoothed across her usually blank face – she wants her daughter to be a Black, and yet, she _doesn't_; it's as much about motherhood as it is about tradition, and the treaty line between them is impossible not to cross – and then nods at the slightly smaller pile of presents.

"Open another one, and then we can go and show Aunt Walburga."

There's another flurry of hands as Andromeda tears at the wrapping paper again, watched by Narcissa, who, even at five years old, wears distaste like a mask, and Bellatrix, whose haughty features give away none of her feelings.

"Life may not be fair Andy," her older sister says finally, "but you can rise above that. You can make a name for yourself in this world."

It's obvious from the passion in Bellatrix's voice that she believes in this… this initiative fully, and that she's always going to be the apple of her mother's eye for it. It's one thing to be beautiful like Narcissa or intelligent like Andromeda, but in her mother's eyes Bellatrix's ideals are everything, and Andromeda just cannot wrap her head around it.

"Your sister's right," Druella nods, ash dropping from her cigarettes like falling stars,  
"it's up to you girls to continue the family name and make something of yourself in the world." She glances at Andromeda, whose attention is focused solely upon the Ludo Bagman model in her hands. Andromeda spins it over and over, Ludo's tiny plastic fingers caught between her own slender ones, and nods, never meeting her mother's eye.

It's not so much that she disagrees with her mother – she doesn't, her mother's ideas on life may be a little harsh, but they're not _bad – _but that right now, it's her birthday and she can't bring herself to care. _It's just a name, _she thinks, _and why's it so important? Why? _

**ii. your side, watch the change in time, when you whisper.**  
_Somewhere weakness is our strength,  
And I'll die searching for it.  
I can't let myself regret such selfishness.  
My pain and all the trouble caused,  
No matter how long  
I believe that there's hope  
Buried beneath it all and  
Hiding beneath it all, and  
Growing beneath it all, and..._

They've never earmarked her as good at Quidditch – that's a role that's been nominated for Sirius, since before he was born, because it's the boys who play Quidditch and the girls who dress up, not matter what Ted Tonks says with that lifted eyebrow and patented smirk about Muggle feminism and the right to kick a man's arse – and yet they still expect her to win. It's not so much about ensuring Slytherin a victory as it is about reputation and pride and preserving the family name by being the best Seeker her team can possibly have.

It's her birthday today, she's turning thirteen today, and yet there's a sinking feeling in her heart that permeates her entire as Tonks scores _one, two, three, four _goals; the Hufflepuff crowd and their cheers of joy boom like thunder in her ears as she realises that it's panic flooding her: what will her house say if she doesn't win, what will Cissy and Bella say, what will her parents say if Slytherin doesn't win and she doesn't catch the Snitch?

She doesn't of course, though whether it was because the other team was better than her or because she was hopeless or because she wasted too much time worrying, Andromeda doesn't know.

All the presents in the world can't rewind seeing the hurt in her sisters' eyes and that eternal smirk on Ted Tonks' face as she scurries into the dressing room, hiding her tears behind a mask of "great game guys," and jostling for a position in the showers. They can't fill the wound that's torn open in her heart or wipe the disappointment from her cheeks as she finally lets the tears fall and wonders if this will ever end. She wonders if she'll ever find the ability to scream and shout and stand up for herself in this world of illusions and blood ties.

It's Ted Tonks who finds her behind the greenhouses, fresh sweat glistening on his arms as he wraps one around her, undoubtedly testing her resolve to see how close he can get before she snaps.

"It's just a game, you know," he laughs, falling onto the log beside her and grimacing at the mud that attaches itself firmly to his pants. "Make love, not Quidditch, remember. Okay, so that wasn't quite the right example – it comes from a Muggle saying, don't worry if you don't understand – but it's not worth worrying about, anyway." Ted continues to ramble, his thoughts wandering everywhere and refusing to find their target: Andromeda just does not want to know.

"Happy birthday, by the way."

It's only the second time Andromeda's heard that today – her team sang "Happy Birthday" after their pre-match "get out there and win" speech; it's not like her sisters to go out of their way to wish her anything, let alone a good day. They don't hate each other, but it's certainly not affection that lingers between them on summer holidays.

"Thanks."

Even if Ted _wasn't _Muggleborn, even if he _was_ Slytherin, he wouldn't understand her regret at not winning, and it doesn't seem right to burden him. Not yet, anyway…

**iii. i wish i could sing no regrets and no emotional debts**

_Trembling, crawling across my skin.  
Feeling your cold dead eyes, stealing the life of mine._

"I don't hate you Bellatrix. We're sisters, _family, _and you can't forget where you came from. We've chosen different paths, that's all." Andromeda stands in front of her sister, her back against the wall and her fingers tight around her wand, waiting for a response.

"Different paths?" Bellatrix scoffs, and Andromeda is reminded of her sadistic side – the one that spent so many years buried during school holidays under a pristine white mask decorated with crimson red lips and the desire to please _Mummy. _

For all the hidden agendas their family revels in, they are a pretty simple lot to figure out: lie, cheat and lie some more, and Andromeda _really _cannot deal with this now that she knows what else is out there. The Blacks are all wearing masks, hiding their decaying, decrepit morals behind civility and the allure of high society. It's not just Bellatrix, but she's the most ruthless of the lot.

"Just because I don't agree with your ideas doesn't mean I'm going to stop you. I may be fifteen today, but that doesn't make me a baby. I'm old enough to choose my own path now."

'Age doesn't create experience, Andromeda."

"No, but it helps."

They're both staring with a mixture of anger and regret – there's a fine line between enemies and friends and sisters, and it's fading underneath them with every word they mutter. Neither of them wants this confrontation, but neither of them wants to live the life of the other…

"Look," Andromeda says finally, "I didn't expect you to understand. I've made my choice, and I never expected you to agree with me."

"Good," Bellatrix replies, her lips twisted into a malevolent sneer, "I'm pleased you didn't expect me to."

With that, the two sisters walk their separate ways: there is no fanfare here, simply two sisters each searching for where they belong.

**iv. those three words are said too much; they're not enough**

_I'm gonna overcome this, paper hearts can't win this time  
And all along I should have known this wasn't your dream, it was mine  
I know you wanted me to give up this life to be  
Everything I was back when you had the hands my heart was in_

"Happy birthday, 'Dromeda. I love you."

"Thanks."

Andromeda draws a hurried breath before Ted smothers her with a flurry of chaste kisses and birthday presents she knows he really can't afford and she drowns in affection and a passionate love that's almost _too _overbearing.

"No 'I love you' then?" he laughs, staring down at the pitch when all _this _began as a way of hiding the fact that he really wants those three words to venture into the world from their hiding place, no matter how much he knows she can't say them, _not yet. _

She's seventeen, not seventy, and yet she feels as harrowed and hollowed as someone twice her age and then some. Andromeda wishes she could blame this_, _this _thing _with Lucius, but her lies reek of self despair as much as a lack of honesty.

"You know I want to tell you that," she says, "but I can't." They don't need reasons to come between them, more fabricated truths to tear them apart when they both know she's engaged to a man she cannot love. "After I deal with this engagement…"

"I'll wait for you." Life is not a fairytale romance, and this is not a fairytale by any stretch of the imagination, and yet she cannot help but feel like she is living one.

She just has to deal with the snide, blonde haired weight that hangs over her head first.

"I know."

Andromeda thinks, no she _knows, _that this is what she loves about Ted: he doesn't understand, and yet, intangibly, he does. He doesn't understand about war and families and _exactly _why that tapestry strikes fear into the heart of every Black – better to die than be blasted away, her mother said once, remember that Andromeda, remember that – and yet he understands that he needs to give her space and to wait for her.

"Thanks."

They're talking in short snippets, tiny phrases that aren't long enough to betray their stone cold faces or their longing to hold each other. It's better this way, better to be restrained and prepared in the face of disaster than to taste the Forbidden Fruit and have it ripped away from them by an engagement of blood and of convenience.

"I better go," Andromeda whispers finally, after several long seconds of their clasped hands holding both their hearts. "I have to talk to him – it's not right to do this to him, and I may be a Black but it doesn't mean my heart's as dark."

"Good luck."

"You too."

It's going to be just as torturous for Ted, waiting, waiting for something, anything that will let him take Andromeda into his arms and hold her tight. The worst thing for both of them is that all their hopes and dreams rest upon this secret midnight meeting with Lucius Malfoy.

**v. for diamonds do appear to be, just like broken glass to me**

_Kiss you off these lips of mine  
Kiss you off for a custom shine  
Pissed yours truly off this time  
It's why I ain't just kissin' you I'm kissin' you off_

It's five minutes to midnight, and the moon illuminates the engagement ring as she twists it around her finger – focusing on it delays the inevitable sacrifice, marks the inevitable point of no return – and yet Andromeda feels as though her birthday is long gone. It's two hours since she talked to Ted, two hours since she told Malfoy to meet her here, two minutes until she seals her fate.

"Happy birthday. What is all this about, Andromeda?" He arrives in a swirl of swishing robes and cold grey eyes, allowing her hand to linger on her face just a little too long for friendship or hatred and removing it a little too quickly for it to be anything else but propriety.

"It's about us, Lucius." She hates the way the words roll of her tongue – just like him, it's not raw affection or raw loathing, but something else entirely. They're bound not only by the parents but also by what their encounters do not portray

"The wedding has been planned for June. My mother is currently organising caterers and dressmakers – she'll only have the best, you know."

"Of course. That's nothing more or less than I'd expect."

"So why do you need to talk to me? I have duties to attend to and homework to complete – how are you finding that Transfiguration essay McGonagall set, by the way?"

Not once in three months have Ted and Andromeda discussed schoolwork – merely the impact it has upon them, for Ted is the epitome of every house except Ravenclaw and Andromeda's best subject is decidedly _not _History of Magic – and she hates that Lucius and her are reduced to such formalities.

Andromeda Black may be a Slytherin, but it does not mean that love is a word lacking from her vocabulary.

"I can't do this, Lucius." Maybe, just maybe, if she's as blunt and as honest and as _everything _as she is with Ted, this will be easy.

"Can't do what, Andromeda?"

"_This." _

Andromeda waves her engagement ring under his nose, eyes blazing and heart sinking and mutters, "I don't love you, Lucius, you know that as well as I do." She's not sure whether it's a testament to his upbringing or his inability to show emotion that causes his lack of response.

"I know."

"I-I-I just can't do it." She looks down, and the words bounce off her feet like fallen soldiers toppling to the ground; they're some of the most liberating words she's ever said.

"But-"

"Look, I'll deal with everything." Andromeda's already moved beyond emotional to practical, and she supposes that's proof that she's dealt with this, it's done, it's over, she's free.

"But-" Lucius - her soon to be not fiancée? – is lost for words, and she can almost smell the confusion in his breath as it wafts over her: he's a Malfoy, a perfect, snide prince, and this isn't what his place inn society dictates.

"Goodbye, Lucius, goodbye."

She waits for confirmation of her choice, for the flood of memories and the heartbreak and the worry and the pain, but it doesn't come. She is not submerged, but dragged to shore by the promise of a brighter future away from this asphyxiation and struggle to survive.

With that, Andromeda throws her wedding ring at Lucius and storms out the door.

**vi. there's nothing you and i won't do, i'll stop the world and melt with you**_  
I want to hold you to the sun  
I want to be your faithful one  
I want to show you all the beauty  
You don't even know you hold _

"Happy birthday Mummy." Even at six o'clock in the morning, Dora is filled with relentless energy as she jumps on Andromeda, who groans and mumbles something about coffee and the chance to sleep in. Ted leans over her, laughing at her inability to wake up, and plants a chaste kiss on her pale, almost fragile cheek, before motioning to Dora to hand over her present.

The card is a mess – Nymphadora's many talents do _not _extend to drawing, and Andromeda's never known 'happy' to be spelt with an 'i,' but she pulls her daughter close, whispering 'thank you' and 'Mummy loves you' into her hair.

It's times like this when Andromeda wonders how she made it here – her life hasn't exactly been fraught with physical danger (just the emotional type, and that's so much more bloodcurdling, she thinks), and yet, she's lucky to be alive.

"Happy birthday 'Dromeda." Ted's voice, rough and harsh with the slightest hint of a laugh, sends shivers down her spine as he pulls her out of bed, enveloping her body with his arms, and whispering something in her ear that is definitely not appropriate for their daughter.

"Dora made you breakfast. Your favourite – choc chip pancakes."

"Thanks honey." Andromeda ruffles her daughter's hair, which is a vibrant cherry red today, laughing at the indignant look she receives._ Such a simple gesture, _she thinks, _and yet she turns her nose up. _Some of her laughter actually stems from the beautiful irony of this situation – Andromeda would have done anything for her mother to show affection, Nymphadora is so well loved she finds no need to care at all.

"Dora, go find Mummy her slippers," Ted says, placing his head on the small of his daughter's back to guide her out the door. As soon as her small frame has disappeared from sight, Ted leans over his wife, smothering her with his breath and his affection and his love.

"Shall we start off where we finished last night?" he whispers in his ear; his voice is seductive as it moves along her neck, the words it spills fluttering against her cheeks and her hair.

"I don't know. Maybe we can start from the beginning again?"

**--**

**Lyrics: **

**i. **_Memento Mori, _The Academy Is

**ii. **_Let the Flames Begin, _Paramore

**iii. **_Dance with the Devil, _Breaking Benjamin

**iv. **_Liar, _Emilie Autumn

**v. **_Kiss You Off, _Scissor Sisters

**vi. **_If I Were A Sailboat, _Katie Melua

**Section Titles:**

**i. **_Red, _Sara Bareillles

**ii. **_Justify, _Red Jumpsuit Apparatus

**iii. **_My Tears Dry Own Their Own, _Amy Winehouse

**iv, **_Chasing Cars, _Snow Patrol

**v. **_Northern Downpour, _Panic at the Disc

**vi. **_I'll Stop the World and Melt With You, _The Cure


	23. Fleur Delacour

**Springtime for Fleur**

_(Fleur)_

**Deluxe Sugar Quills**

There was something about her birthday that always made her head spin. Whether it was the true arrival of spring that always came with April, or just the simple giddiness she always felt in the air, she loved her birthday.

Each birthday was different. Before she left for Beauxbatons, it was just a simple lunch, sometimes a picnic, with Gabrielle and her Maman and Papa. There was the wonderful cake her Maman always made, with its creamy vanilla and sweet, nearly flower-like icing.

In Beauxbatons, it was different. She had her friends, Amalie and Hélène, who always worked extra hard to throw her a party that everyone in their year attended. They were caring, and always made her feel loved on her birthday.

It all changed her final year. Her final year, she found herself not at her lovely Beauxbatons, but instead at the blasted ''Ogwarts'. She found herself stranded and alone, though Amalie and Hélène had also come on the trip. She was the Beauxbaton champion, yet she could do nothing. She barely escaped that dragon, and if it hadn't been for that Harry Potter – who knows what would have happened to Gabrielle. No one knew what was like to be her, and no one could seem to help.

Still, that year, Hélène found her outside, sitting by the lake. It was a Saturday, and they didn't have their classes.

"Fleur?"

Fleur turned toward her friend, smiling slightly at the sight of her.

"_Oui_, Hélène?" She pushed her blond hair back from where it had hung over her eyes, when she was lost in thought. Hélène produced a small silver box from behind her back, a silver bow on top of it.

"_Bon Anniversaire_," she said, giving her the present. " 'Appy Birzt'day." Fleur smiled, accepting it. It was a small locket, heart-shaped and dangling on a silver chain. Inside were two pictures – one of her and all of her friends, and one of her with her family.

Fleur gasped, and hugged Hélène.

"_Merci,_ Hélène!" she cried. Suddenly, Fleur noticed singing, and it was coming towards her. Behind the tree she found Amalie and the others, holding a giant cake. Suddenly, Fleur wasn't so lonely anymore.

Years later, it was like that again. She had had Bill for her last two birthdays, there by her side to comfort her, and she him when times got bad. But in April of '98, Fleur felt something missing. She now had what she wanted so badly – the love of her life, but she had expected to spend her birthday only with him, not with all of the other people taking refuge in her house.

It was a beautifully sunny morning when she awoke, and she went downstairs to make breakfast like she always did. However, this morning she found Hermione and Luna, standing and arguing while breakfast was already cooking. Their bickering stopped when Fleur walked in, and Hermione smiled when she saw her.

"Happy Birthday!" she exclaimed. "I thought I'd make breakfast for a change, since you always do it." Fleur was sure that Bill put her up to this task, but simply smiled and poured herself a cup of coffee.

"Hermione, you should still use a bit of crushed daisy roots on that bacon – it's been proved to increase a person's happiness!" Luna whispered to Hermione. Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Luna, I told you, daisy roots are used in Shrinking Solutions. There'd be no way that they'd be beneficial to food!" Hermione replied.

"_Filles_," Fleur said sternly. "Do not argue about zee food. Daizes would look nice on ze table, _oui_, but not on zee food." The girls looked at her nodded, and Luna slipped outside to pick daises in the small garden while Hermione laid food out on the table.

Fleur's vision was suddenly blocked as two large hands covered her eyes.

"Bill, ztop eet!" He chuckled, and then sat down next to her. He kissed her on the cheek, and handed her a bouquet of tulips and fleur-de-lises, her favorite flowers. He grabbed her hand and pulled her out the back door, where they wandered in the sunlight. He kissed her softly, and they wandered around until they could see the ocean below them.

"Happy Birthday," Bill breathed in her ear. She leaned against him, watching the horizon. As far as birthdays went, this one didn't start off too badly. There were years to come still – she'd spend her next birthday as big as a whale, but the war would finally be over and she would be happy.

"_Merci,_" she replied softly, whispering the word into the sky.


	24. Ginny Weasley

**The Family Failing**

_Ginny_

**By Lexie-H**

Motherhood suited Ginny – this was true at least from where Harry stood, concealed in the shadowy doorway watching his wife move slowly about the kitchen. Her hair was pulled back into a careless ponytail, and a number of strands hung free, tumbling down her back. Ginny's face was clear and relaxed, her expression serene, and Harry could hardly imagine she'd ever looked more beautiful.

Certainly it was a far cry from the glamour of their early married life, just a few years earlier, when he, a budding Auror and reluctant poster-boy for the new Ministry and _she_, a Quidditch superstar and _Witch Weekly _pinup and were young newly-weds at the forefront of their generation, leading the magical world into a whole new era …

It was a funny thing, really, but Harry could safely say he much preferred obscurity – or at least, the shallow semblance of obscurity that was really the very best he could hope for, being Harry Potter.

Ginny was turning, halfway between the oven and bench top when she froze, wincing. Both hands flew to her stomach and her breathing became more exaggerated, deeply _in_, and _out_.

Abandoning all pretenses of not being there, Harry moved quickly to her side, one hand curling around her waist in support while the other moved automatically to her swollen belly. Feeling the baby kick again, Harry pressed his lips to her forehead, smiling in earnest. She relaxed against him with a soft sigh, not betraying even a flicker of surprise. Not for the first time, Harry thought fleetingly of signing her on to train his Aurors, before wistfully pushing that thought aside.

"How long did you know I was there?" he murmured, chuckling.

The baby had settled again, perhaps calmed by the gentle pressure of their wondering hands. Turning to face him, Ginny flashed a sheepish grin.

"How did _you_ know? I was trying to pretend I didn't …"

Harry raised his eyebrows involuntarily, amused. She met his eyes, chuckling too.

"You rely on that Cloak of yours too much, you know," she added teasingly.

Harry _hmmm_ed, and leant over to kiss her softly on the lips.

"I can't help it," he responded humbly, leaning around her to dip his finger into the invitingly full mixing bowl. Ginny was faster; she swatted his hand away playfully with the wooden spoon. Unperturbed, he grinned. "I find you irresistible."

"Ha!"

She didn't appear to believe him - that much was obvious. Curiously, though, she didn't seem to mind.

"I do!" he protested as she turned for the baking tray. Quickly, he stole a finger into the bowl before she returned. "Tastes good already."

Ginny set the baking tray down with a soft _clang_, rolling her eyes. Harry watched her greedily, unable to resist the broad grin spreading across his face. She looked magnificent when she was cross, and there wasn't any danger, because he could see her eyes were dancing affectionately.

"Harry James Potter, get out of the kitchen this instant or so help me, Merlin, I-"

He left readily enough, although not without placing a final, gleeful kiss on her cheek. Ginny did her best to look unmoved.

Harry took the stairs two at a time, not fancying a trip to St Mungos again anytime soon. Instead, he decided that checking on the boys was probably a better use of his time. Pausing by the first door on his right, he peered inside.

Harry and Ginny had chosen the room across the hall from their bedroom for the nursery simply out of convenience. James had been shipped off further down the hallway two-and-a-half years ago, and Ginny had already claimed the nursery for her writing room once Albus was old enough to go the same way. For now, their youngest (although not for long, Harry amended with a smile) was sound asleep in his cot, clearly clueless to the fact he'd officially departed infancy – Harry checked his watch – _thirty-two minutes ago_.

Harry's eyes were drawn across the room now, taking in the cheerful yellow walls and the lovely arching bay window with white-painted sills. Ginny already had plans to install a window seat there, although this would have to be put on hold for another couple of years or so.

Personally, Harry couldn't see the hurry. After all, their boys seemed to be growing quickly enough as it was…

And speaking of his boys, James was being awfully quiet. Harry was learning to approach this sort of observation with the utmost concern. On more than one occasion already, he and Ginny had been given reason to question the infinite wisdom in bestowing the names of two particularly notorious mischief-makers upon their eldest son. Like his namesakes, a quiet James invariably meant trouble, and upon opening the next door along from the nursery, Harry found his expectations were not disappointed. He sighed, folding his arms.

"Gin? Come up here a moment, will you?"

Her fiery tumble of hair appeared at the foot of the stair.

"What?"

"Come and see what your son has been up to."

"My son?" She laughed easily but ascended the stairs quickly, making her way towards him with glittering eyes. He felt his breath catch, just a little. She didn't notice.

"How about we call him _your_ son?"

Their gazes locked for an instant. Without missing a beat, Harry turned to frown at the framed photograph hanging on the wall between them, quite prepared to lay blame where blame was due.

"_Your_ grandson," he accused pointedly, but Lily and James simply laughed from the circle of each other's arms, oblivious.

Forgetting himself, Harry swallowed hard, barely registering the warmth of Ginny taking his hand. She squeezed it gently, prompting him back, and he shook his head unconsciously, frowning at the strange sensation burning his eyes.

"So." Ginny's voice was softer now, and full of affection. From the frame beside his parents, a photograph of her siblings circa Christmas 1995 caught his eye. "What has our little terror done now?"

Without the need for preamble, Harry swung the white wooden door open a little further. He heard Ginny's sharp intake of breath and suppressed a chuckle.

"Oh _James_," she sighed.

On one level, 'our little terror' hardly seemed an apt title. If anything, James Sirius Potter looked entirely angelic curled up in the middle of his bedroom floor, fast asleep. A lock of messy black hair flopped across his forehead – those Potter genes had proved more than a match for the Weasley-red – and his chubby hands were curled into little fists.

On another level, the phrase 'little terror' was entirely appropriate. Surrounding him in an almost perfect arc of destruction were the remnants of what had been several beautifully wrapped gifts. Empty boxes, several toys and books, ribbon and wrapping paper were strewn around him indiscriminately.

Harry suppressed the urge to summon his camera and instead followed Ginny into the room. While she scooped up their precious little rascal and set him on the bed, Harry knelt amongst the scattered presents and made an optimistic attempt to restore them to their former condition. As he'd expected, _reparo_ had very little effect on poor little Albus' birthday presents.

Ginny smoothed James' quilt cover absently, an ironic smile turning the corners of her lips upwards.

"I don't suppose we thought to explain they weren't for him, did we?"

Recalling the general chaos of last Christmas, where James had been invited to open every single present simply for the joy of seeing him gleefully tearing at the wrapping, Harry sighed and shook his head. No, they _hadn't_ thought of that one. He returned Ginny's smile dolefully. They were still learning the ropes with this whole parenting thing, that much was clear.

Ginny sighed again.

"Oh well," she murmured lightly. "It's not as though Al will remember, anyway, I suppose."

"No, probably not," he agreed softly.

Harry loved how easily she bestowed her forgiveness. The children had softened her stubborn streak, certainly. And with namesakes and grandparents and uncles and aunts (and parents) all taken into consideration, Harry really couldn't find it in himself to be too angry with James, either. It seemed that James' problem was genetic – trouble making, that was.

A random thought flitted across Harry's mind, although it was probably triggered by the concept of inheriting genetics, and that whole… general process. He grinned.

"You know, Gin – with the boys both fast asleep and all…"

She raised an eyebrow, doing her best to look coy while he gently pulled her to her feet. They knew each other so well now that it was near useless for her to pretend she hadn't understood him instantly, but he let her pretend anyway. Harry did his best to keep his voice neutral and innocent, drawing his wife from James' room and gently shutting the door.

"Wouldn't want to miss an opportunity, would we?"

Ginny snorted. "Who would have thought that of all things, _opportunism_ would turn out to be the family failing?"

The photographs lining their hallway seemed to confirm his opinion on the matter. Harry pressed his lips to hers, smiling. After all, as family failings went they could probably have done far worse.


	25. Lily Potter II

**Big Brother  
**

_(Lily II)  
_

**by Princess Gillybean  
**

It was a nice a medium sized room, with light blue walls and wide windows

On the left side of the room there was a single, though still quite large, bed in which a small girl lay, her red hair fanned over the pillow and her face scrunched up as though she was having a bad dream. It was a nice a medium sized room, with light blue walls and wide windows. Under the window was a chest, on which sat numerous, carefully arranged dolls in frivolous dresses of various colours and several stuffed animals. Propped against it was Jessica, her broom. Daddy wouldn't let any of them have a real broom until they were nine, something that caused a lot of complaint in the Potter household, though now Lily was the only one without one. For the most part she was content with the Two-Eighty Training-Broom, essentially a regular broom but designed to go much slower and much easier to control, but the fact both her brothers had a real broom annoyed her on occasion.

Lily's eyes flew open, as she sat bolt up right, gazing around her room anxiously, but there was no sign of what had haunted her dreams. She wasn't aware she had screamed until James came in, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

"You ok Lils?" she explained tearfully as her brothers clambered onto her bed, James wrapping his arms tightly around her and Albus picking up the battered stuffed bear that had fallen to the ground. "Here's Jenny, now budge over." She wiggled backwards as he squished in beside her and James.

"Try and get some sleep." James mumbled. Lily looked up at the clock that hung on the wall opposite. It had little fairies dancing on each hand.

"What's the time?" She asked. "Too early" was the muffled reply. She shifted so she could see his face; his eyes were shut tightly. She turned to Albus.

"Merlin Lily, keep still!" Albus muttered, heaving himself back into the bed.

"I just want to know what time it is." When she got no reply, she settled for gazing around her room and imagining conversations with the occupants of each of her posters. Several were of unicorns, one of this year's National Quidditch team and finally Lily's favourite; a faded poster of the Holyhead Harpies from around 12 years ago. Although the unicorns held very interesting conversations, Lily preferred looking up at the face of her mother, who grinned down at her. Feeling safe and warm she snuggled deep into the covers and closed her eyes.

There was a knock on the door.

"Lily, its time to get up." Her mum stuck her head round the door. "So that's where those two got to," she said looking amused. Lily beamed up at her from amidst a tangle of blankets, arms and legs. "Boys it's time to get up." Albus groaned and pulled Lily's pillow over his head, James buried his head under his arms murmuring, "Just one more minute mum."

"If you two don't get up now you can make your own breakfast, I've made bacon and…" Before the threatening had finished, Lily, along with all her bedding was dragged to the floor in her brother's hasty attempt to get downstairs. Their mother laughed and helped Lily untangle herself, "Come on love or those monsters will have eaten everything."

Downstairs they found James and Albus stuffing their faces with all the food in sight. "Morning Daddy," Lily said and her father's head appeared from behind The Quibbler, "Morning Princess," he replied as she climbed onto his lap to kiss his cheek. "So James, it's your birthday soon." Lily rolled her eyes, as if James needed reminding.

James grinned. "Last birthday at home! It has to be the bestest ever!"

"Better than last year?" Ginny asked with a smile, causing Al to blush. James gave a loud cough that sounded suspiciously like 'Dumbledore'. Lily giggled, James' party last year had been so much fun but then again James birthdays were always fun.

_It was the largest party she had ever been to, presents piled in one corner and a fold-up table in the other, cowering under the wait of the enormous birthday cake Grandma Weasley had made to celebrate James turning 10. She wasn't sure how it happened but one minute she was sitting happily on Teddy's lap while he chatted with her father the next minute she was on the floor and Albus was flying through the air causing ever adult in the room to jump to their feet. In the door was James was doubled up laughing and when Al made an opportune landing in the cake, tears began to fall down his face. She still remembers the shocked look on her fathers face when Al stood up, covered from head to toe in white icing. Lily had started laughing then; he looked like he had a rather long beard and long white hair. Then he had scowled and pushed his glasses back up his nose and the stunned silence changed to laughter._

After finishing their breakfast, the Potter kids were sent upstairs to change. Lily slipped into her room and dragged a chair over to her wardrobe. She wasn't yet tall enough to reach the special green sundress she wanted to wear that day. It was a very special dress,

Auntie Fleur had bought her for her in Paris and she only ever wore it on special occasions. After pulling on a pair of neat white socks and several attempts to get her favourite blue sandals on the right feet she went over to her dresser and picked up her Pygmy Puff bank, full of little bronze Knuts and the occasional Sickle. She rattled it and smiled at the satisfactory jiggle the coins made. She had a very important decision to make. Today was the day her mother was taking her to Diagon Alley in search of James' birthday present and she had no idea what to get him. She'd been saving up especially, ever since Albus' birthday, and was determined to get him something wonderful. James really should've been an easy person to buy for, he loved anything to do with pranking, food or Quidditch, but Lily knew everyone else in their rather extensive family would be getting him something like that and she wanted her present to be very special this year.

Her mother walked in and seemed a little shocked to see Lily standing quietly, fully dressed, "Excited for our shopping trip?" She asked.

Lily smiled. "I'm thinking what to get."

"Well just let me check on the boys and I'll come do your hair." Lily nodded and went over to the mirror as her mother retreated. Loud yells could soon be heard coming from down the hall.

Lily bit her lip, when he got her present she wanted James to look at her with the awe and gratitude he had when his parents had given him his first real broom, two years ago. She knew she could never beat that present. It had certainly been the best he'd ever gotten.

_She still remembered the exhilarating feeling when he pulled her up in front of him, they'd only flown around the garden once and she suspected he'd gone quite slow just for her but it had been the most amazing feeling. Later he'd almost been grounded for putting her in so much danger but Uncle Ron had laughed at Aunt Ginny and said she was just like Grandma Weasley so he'd been forgiven._

This year they'd made James swear he wouldn't take it to Hogwarts with him. Not that anyone had believed him when he promised. The morning's joy disappeared as Lily remembered the consequences of James turning eleven.

Her mother returned muttering,"_Boys,_" as she began to slowly drag the brush through Lily's tangle of hair.

"Of course you're normally just as bad_,_" she laughed, squeezing Lily's shoulder. For the first few minutes, Lily winced with every stroke. Her mother smiled reassuringly at her as their eyes met in the mirror. Lily was said to look just like Ginny had when she was seven, they shared Grandma Weasley's fiery red hair and warm brown eyes and Lily was small for her age, just like her mother had been. She relaxed as most of the knots were tugged free and her mind returned to the matter at hand. James was turning eleven. She scowled at the thought. Eleven meant Hogwarts soon and Hogwarts meant James leaving. In fact he was rather fond of pointing out this year would be the last birthday he would spend at home for seven years. Unwanted tears filled her eyes, even with all their teasing, pranking and hair-pulling Lily loved her brother very much and loved spending time with him.

"Did I pull too hard?" Lily shook her head forcefully and then yelped as the brush snagged in her hair. After expertly untangling the brush her mother knelt down next to Lily and wrapped her arms around her, "Honey what's wrong?"

"I don't want James to go!" Lily wailed and clung tightly to her mother's neck.

"Oh honey, I know how you feel. I have a lot of older brothers, as you know, and I watched every one of them go off to Hogwarts without me. Right now, be glad Albus will still be here. Before you know it the three of you will be all there together and your Daddy and I will be all alone."

"I won't leave you. Don't worry Mummy," Lily said, flinging her arms around her mother's neck.

"It's something every mother goes through Lily, but lets just be glad you're going to be around for quite a bit longer."

Suitably mollified Lily tried to remember what other gifts James has liked in the past. She was really too young to remember much. To her James' 8th birthday was a blur of crepe paper and balloons with monster faces drawn in black marker that jumped out from doorways to scare her then hugged her when she cried. But one thing she did remember was when, that night, the nightmare returned and with it came her brothers, as always, there to protect her. She wanted a present to show him how much she loved him, even if it wasn't the best present ever and she told her mother so.

"Whatever you get James he is going to love, because it's from you."

--

James watched Lily and their mother from the doorway, and showed maturity rare for him by actually debating whether to interrupt. He smiled sadly, as excited as he was about Hogwarts he knew he would miss his family. Lily really didn't have to worry, he had only been four at the time but he still had fragments of the memory of when he had received the best birthday present.

_His mother's voice, "James, Al this is you're baby sister. Her name's Lily"_

_His father's strong arms, "up you go mate, now you can hold her if you want."_

_Big brown eyes staring up at him and Lily's tiny hand clutching at his fingers._

He walked into the room, "Getting my presents today?" He asked tugging on Lily's newly braided hair affectionately.

"DON'T JAMES!"

Submit Review Report Possible Abuse Add Story to Favorites Add Story to Story Alert Add Author to Favorites Add Author to Author Alert Add Story to C2 Archive 


	26. Lorcan Scamander

**The Colour of Her Eyes**

_(Lorcan)_

**By Darren's Wings**

Lorcan opened his eyes, and as it dawned on him what day it was, what day yesterday was, he began to cry into his soft, warm blankets, his pillow, which smelled dreadfully of dust and mildew. "My birthday," he choked through the muffling curtain of cold tears. "Almost hers." His shoulders shaking, sniffing, he wept for an hour, trying not to think, not to remember. He couldn't. It wasn't...right for this to happen, somehow, it was not fate's wish.

He was thankful, though, that although Lysander shared his birthday with Lorcan, he would not feel this same crushing sorrow, the kind of sadness that cuts into you, tearing your heart to bloody, stinging shreds, yet still indescribable. Not until nightfall...

One of the other boys in his dormitory woke, and Lorcan flushed awkwardly that someone should see him crying. He dressed himself and tried to ignore the strange but sympathetic looks the seventh year gave him. He was Hugo Weasley. Rose's brother. Lily's best friend.

As Lorcan passed his twin, he let out a sigh of relief, his shoulders relaxing slightly. His brother was still asleep. _Thank goodness_. Less questions would be asked. For that, Lorcan would always be glad...

Lorcan slipped out of the dormitory and blinked rapidly in an attempt to keep his eyes from growing too wet. His heart pounded, and his head hurt because of it. He moaned and put a hand to his forehead. Slowly, he staggered up the shifting staircases outside the portrait hole, his feet as heavy as lead, and continued to climb, up to the astronomy tower. Students stared at him as he hurried by, but none of them stopped him.

He emerged onto the flat, railed roof, where telescopes often lined the outer rim; however, they weren't here now. As warm as it was at the end of term, Lorcan shivered as the insistent wind pushed him flat against the roof. The hard, cold wind stole his breath from his lungs, and he gasped for air. Then the howling air quieted a moment, and he gulped it in hungrily. The cool freshness filled his lungs all the way up, and it was good to taste that sweet purity of the air one last time.

Lorcan walked slowly, but not reluctantly, across the rooftop to the rail; it was made of mortared gray stone, so short someone could easily step over it and plummet to the depths below. Far beneath him, he could make out the dark outline of the Forbidden Forest, the towering, spiky, dark green branches of the Womping Willow, the rolling green blanket of soft grass, and even the squat, brown form of Hagrid's old hut. He could almost smell Hagrid's new flowers; all the students avoided if possible the flowerbed, and when they did have to go within a fifty-foot radius, they covered their mouths, gagging. One of two students had already been transferred to the Hospital Wing for a short period, after suddenly passing out.

Rain began to lazily drift down from the sky, falling in drawling, fat drops. It shaped and pummeled the surface of the dark lake, barely visible because of the reflection of the forest around it. Dark storm clouds hung in the deep, dark blue sky, as if an artist had taken his brush and cast long, puffy strokes throughout the blue canvas of the sky. Lorcan sighed and sniffed, wiping his nose on his sleeve. A sharp, painful longing yanked at his heart. He would leave this all behind. He'd never see it again.

Ever.

But it was the best thing. He'd made his decision, and there was no going back.

Taking a deep breath, letting the cold, drizzling rain wash the tears down his face, his chin, down his neck, Lorcan Scamander prayed for the first time in his life. It wasn't for him, either; it was for a tiny child, born last night, dead last night, the eve of Lorcan's own birthday.

"I know I wasn't particularly religious. But, please, gather her spirit into your arms, Lord," he whispered, but his voice was lost upon the screeching wind. "Tell her I love her with all my heart. Thank you."

Then he climbed upon the railing, careful to find his balance. The wind playfully tugged at his golden hair. He inhaled deeply. It was so beautiful...and she hadn't made it even through the night. If only she had, he could have shown her all the simple things of the world, the things we take for granted, and it would have beautiful.

"Is this what you want?"

Whoever's voice it belonged to had to yell to be heard, and even then Lorcan could hardly make out the words. Sweet perfume blew straight into his face.

He turned. "Lily?"

Her blood-red hair had been darkened and plastered to her body by the rain. Her clothes hugged her tightly, and Lorcan could see that she'd nearly recovered her old figure since the baby was born. Quick, he thought, for a woman right after childbirth. Still, though, her waist had thickened. She trembled with cold as the rain poured down. Her eyes looked too large with dark circles underneath them, and her hair was wet and flat.

"I know what you're thinking," she said after he stepped down off the rail. "I thought the same. I came up here because...I don't know why...but I wasn't going to do this," she added, crossing her arms firmly against the weather. "It's not worth it. I...I didn't think...you would do it. There's still more to live for. You can't let go."

At the sight of her face, devoid of all colour, the skin sagging, dark circles under her eyes, with sorrow etched in every line in the same clarity the rain put to her physique, Lorcan couldn't help it. The tears trickled down his face again, but he swallowed them, nearly choking, and advanced toward her. She didn't move away, as he had expected.

"I can't do this. I can't live like this," he breathed in her ear; she could feel his warm breath upon her cheek, and she drew closer without realising it. "I...I loved her. I still love her. Even though I never knew her." He shook his head, sniffed, and wiped his face again. The air hurt in his lungs, like he was drinking fire.

Lily rounded on him, waving her arms at him. Her eyes flared. "Then why did you stop talking to me?!" she demanded, her chest rising and falling heavily, a tremour in her voice. "Why didn't you care?"

Lorcan's voice lowered, and she had to lean closer to hear him. "I _did_ care." His jaw clenched.

"Then what was wrong with you?" She shook her head incredulously, rolling her eyes.

"You rejected me." It was a complete statement. He avoided her eyes.

"How?" She blinked several times, quite quickly.

It was Lorcan's turn to stare at her in incredulity. "When you told me about the baby, I offered to marry you. I wanted you! I _love_ you, Lily," he added as she spun on her heel away from him, almost haughtily.

"Well, I don't love you. Not now." The last two words floated to him on the traitourous breeze, and combined with its noise and the fact she faced the opposite direction, he strained to hear them.

Lorcan acted on impulse and walked toward her briskly. "I still love you. Like I love her," he murmured, his heartbeat calmed, the air fresh again.

"She's dead," Lily answered flatly; he could imagine her blinking her eyes determinedly, glaring, as if she could order the tears not to come.

Lorcan nodded, but he didn't mind if she never saw it. He was very near her now; he could smell her perfume, the same he'd smelled on his pillow night after night. Once, more than nine months before. But it seemed like a lifetime ago...

"Get away!" She spat the words over her shoulder as if they were something that tasted foul.

Lorcan did not heed her, and the next thing he knew, he had swept her into his arms. Lily drew closer, almost convulsively, but then stiffened. Her body was warm and soft next to his. He ran his fingers through her hair, tangled, wet, and cold, but soft.

"Lily," he said, his lips on her warm ear. "I'm sorry. Really."

"Sorry's not enough, damn it!" she snarled, shoved him away.

He sighed. "I know. Sorry was never enough for you."

She gave him an odd look and crossed her arms, but otherwise did not respond.

The wind punctuated the silence between them. The rain began to drive down in terrifying torrents. The roof grew slippery, and Lorcan and Lily squinted against the determined water droplets. It was icy cold, almost as cold as Lorcan's heart. The pain was gone, replaced by a biting numbness, but it wasn't from the rain...

"I know it's not enough," he repeated, "But it's something. And, maybe, it was enough once."

With that, he cupped her cheek with one hand and drew her nearer. He sought her lips, kissed her eagerly, followed her when she drew back. She tasted like a combination of rain and tears and blood, along with something sweet but spicy, like peppermint. Lightning flashed in the distance. At first, she struggled in his grasp, but soon she returned his eagerness, his impetus, if hesitantly. She ran a hand over his chest, and he tightened around her waist protectively.

Finally forced to breathe again, he broke away. Then he ran across the roof, sliding but picking himself up afterward, and vaulted over the rail.

"_Lorcan! NO_!" Lily screamed with a sob, rushing after him. She slipped and cut her shins, but it didn't stop her; the pain seemed to add to her mad flight. Her heart was so loud she was sure everyone for miles to come could hear it. Cheeks flushed, she panted, her eyes deepening in colour. The icy, rain-filled wind smothered her, and it grew worse as she leaned over the edge. Everywhere she looked, the rain hurtling toward the earth hid all else from view. She couldn't find him. He was gone. "Lorcan?" she screamed frantically, "Lorcan?!" Her hair flew in her face.

For maybe a few minutes, or maybe days, Lily stared over the tower's edge, into the rain-swept darkness of her heart.

After a while, she turned slowly away."You don't love him, remember?" Lily told herself, hiding her tear-streaked face in her robes. Her mind lingered on that last kiss, the way his strong arms had pressed her close to his body, the scent of sweat and tears all at once in his body, the way her blood had burned with passion. "He made you hurt, broke your heart. Then he watched your baby die in his arms, and you never saw the colour of her eyes. Just the colour of her hair. Gold...like his."

Lily turned away, giving one last look at the rail before walking to the stairs with measured steps. Her foot echoed on the metal step as she disappeared into the dark stairway. As if laughing at her, the wind howled and moaned tauntingly.

But, even through the weeping rainclouds, even through the sneering wind, you could hear someone sobbing brokenly...


	27. Mr Ollivander

**Survival**

_Mr Ollivander_

**By Volturi-fied**

He lived for birthdays, they shaped his being and more importantly, his business. He hadn't forgotten what he had lived for before being taken, still would live for if he ever got out of this hell hole. He wondered would he be able to live life as he had before now, before here. He would hardly be allowed to serve customers in his current condition, pale and utterly skeletal. He would make the children cry, and most likely send people to Gregorovitch.

Not that he minded the competition (that also was good for business), but he would rather like to keep his shop open. If he lived that long. If even Gregorovitch was still alive after what he had had to tell that..._him_ yesterday. The house was uncharacteristically quiet today he suddenly noticed, he must be gone away.

His mind fell short of what he had been thinking of for a moment, and then he remembered. Birthdays. He'd had quite a few himself, one hundred and ninety nine to be exact. Bordering on two hundred, if he managed to get to it. His own sixteenth birthday was probably his fondest memory. It was the same day he got a detention for not complying with his professor of Transfiguration, a bald man with an unturned nose and the name of Timothy Pepper.

He had simply asked when the man was introducing himself if he could have salt instead. It had been a stupid thought that had fashioned the outburst (he was normally a very polite student), but it inspired enough snickers to earn him a night in the forbidden forest with the school caretaker Hugh Bonner. You can imagine the taunts that came with such a name, and the man felt himself smile despite his condition.

But back to that night, he had been in the woods helping the Care of Magical Creatures Professor, a young woman named Carney, to search for Bowtruckles, under the supervision of Hugh. He had found one, nursing a twig of an Oak tree beneath its skinny arms. He could tell that the stick was quite a marvellous piece of wood, at a proper eleven and a half inches. It just needed a bit of TLC and a magical core, then it would be a most amazing wand.

Somehow, he got the Oak into his pocket after the Bowtruckle had been caught and sedated. Fate had intervened greatly that twilight, when he stumbled on the way back to school and found a silvery hair on the roots that had tripped him. When he had finally gotten to sleep, he lay with his fingers clasped around a new wand, Eleven and a half inches, Oak and Unicorn hair. Something he could present to his father. A _masterpiece_. A key to a legacy, that ran in his family for generations.

A creak in the floor brought him out of his reminising thoughts, and he strained his ears to hear something, anything at all. But it was still silent on the above. He shook his head, captivity was making him crazy. (Crazier if you listened to the Press, which he didn't.)

Few people knew it but he had once had a wife. His dear Marybeth, the girl he watched from afar in school, in turn the person he had been trying to impress that one time he had recieved a detention. He hadn't had the courage to ask her out until she had arrived at his shop looking for a new wand. Her old one, Thirteen inches, Ash and Phoenix feather had snapped when she had fallen down some stairs at the ministry, where she was training as a Magical Law Enforcer.

Surprisingly, the wand she recieved was the first he'd made. And also the one that now adorned his shop window.They had spent many happy days together but then she had contracted a severe form of illness at the age of fifty, one the killed her quickly and painfully. Tears filled his eyes as he croaked her name. They had been soulmates, really and truly. But, she had never bourne a child and that hurt them both deeply. That he would have to find an heir outside of his family, to carry on his name and purpose.

He heard a chime of a grand father clock, signaling midnight. If his dates were right, he was now a year older. Wiser? He doubted it. Frail? He was the epitome of the word. Alone? Completely and utterly.

He wondered now, if he could make it to Two hundred and one. What would he do during the year? Rebuild his shop, find an heir, make wands until his hands wouldn't move and there was no magic in his bones. In all his years, he had never had reason to not live, even after Marybeth his shop had kept him going. The constant demand for magic creaters, all given as presents on the day, week, month or year a child turned eleven, when another birthday marked the beginning of a new dawn for that person. The first true makings of a wizard.

He sighed, turning on his side in the dark, his eyes so familiar to the dimness, he could almost see the wall opposite. Though maybe that was his imagination, or an hallucination. Either way he closed his flowing eyes and let himself dream of happiness. Of the day he would see the sign above him, hear the gasp when a wand chose its wizard in _his_ store:

Ollivanders, Makers of Fine Wands since 382Bc.


	28. Peter Pettigrew

**Fourth of July**

_(Peter)_

**By Gaby Black**

Peter Pettigrew hated being born in summer because it most often meant spending his birthday on his own.

In his early years he spent the fourth of July with his parents; sometimes they invited his cousin Bertha Jorkins, but she was three years older than him and it was obvious she only went to please her parents. Besides she was always scowling and whining and Peter never got to choose the games they played.

As soon as she attended Hogwarts, Bertha stopped visiting him for his birthday. His parents told him she was sorry she could not come, but he knew that she simply did not care. Peter's resentment grew.

It was only when he made friends at Hogwarts that he thought he could have a real, nice birthday. But before the summer after second year, they weren't close enough for him to invite them at his house. At the end of their third year he mentioned that his birthday was on the fourth of July, and wouldn't it be nice if they all spent the day together?

But Sirius was stuck in Grimmauld Place and Remus could not afford to go.

James said he was sorry but he was attending a Quidditch match of the English national team on the fourth of July. "Maybe next year," James had said, and even Peter could catch the emptiness of the words.

Remus told him the fourth of July was the day of the independence of the United States, and a day of celebration for American Muggles. Peter thought that he'd rather it was a day of celebration for _him_, too.

Fourth of July was his day, and nobody seemed to care.

It hurt even more to see that the month of March was a constant celebration, what with Remus's birthday being on the 10th and James's on the 27th. Half of the school seemed to participate to the festivities, with people James barely knew clapping him on the back and "surprise parties" being organized in the Gryffindor common room every year. Sirius's birthday was always the occasion to set up the biggest prank of the year and he received dozens of presents from his schoolmates. For his birthday, Peter only got three letters and presents from his parents. No matter how big and numerous the presents were, Peter still felt something was missing.

The summer after fourth year, James surprised Peter by agreeing to spend the fourth of July at his place. Peter was very excited and _grateful_, but as the day approached he grew more and more nervous. What if James didn't have fun? What if he was bored? _What_ were they going to do?

Looking back on July, 4th, 1975, Peter always felt ashamed and lonely. James had been bored. He had not said it, of course, but Peter could see it on his face. It was on this day that Peter truly realized that without Sirius and Remus, James and Peter would still be friends, but there would be much less laughter and much more awkward silences.

The next year, James said he was going abroad with his parents, and Peter spent his sixteenth birthday with his parents.

But the worst, certainly, had been his nineteenth birthday. As it happened, James had proposed to Lily on the first day of July and everyone was so excited about the news that most people, including in the Order, simply forgot to wish Peter a happy birthday. Only Remus, Sirius, James and Lily had wished it, but only very absent-mindedly, and it had been obvious that their smiles were only for the soon-to-be newlyweds.

James and Lily had stolen his birthday.

Everyone around Peter had been so thrilled that he had kept his resentment to himself; nobody ever wondered if Peter Pettigrew would have wanted a surprise birthday party. Peter was painfully aware of how much his friends and himself had drifted from each other ever since they had left Hogwarts. But he was still their friend, Peter would repeat to himself, every time it became unbearable to only know what happiness was when looking into James's eyes. Peter wished he could find out for himself, too. He felt like a mere spectator of his life until the Dark Lord came to him.

He always, cowardly, blamed it on being born in July that he felt so much resentment and jealousy for his friends. He tried to convince himself this was one of the reasons why he had betrayed them.

It was much easier to blame fate.

"_How bitter a thing it is to look into happiness through another man's eyes!" _(William Shakespeare)

* * *


	29. Dobby

**A House Elf's Birthday**

_(Dobby)_

**By Megsy42**

Dobby had never been fussed about his birthday. He was a house elf, and it was never a tradition for that 'special' day to be celebrated, because their masters had never even considered bothering to. In fact, he rarely even remembered his birthday until halfway through the day, where he would suddenly be struck by the realisation that that day, years ago, was the day he was brought into this world. He wasn't particularly fussed about this either – not knowing that it was his birthday would make the day no different than if he had. Who else was really going to care anyway? He was just a house elf who cooked and served food for the many pupils of Hogwarts. No one gave him any thought, except brave Harry Potter and his loyal friends – but their birthdays were much more important, much more special and much better celebrated. Dobby didn't mind this, because he knew Harry Potter deserved to be treated kindly and given presents, and the house elf much preferred to watch others happily enjoy having the spotlight on them, than be the centre of attention himself.  
This was why it came as a shock to him when the day of his birthday turned out to be one of the best days of his life.

_March 1st_

Dobby heard the portrait of the ticklish pineapple swing open, and bounced forward excitedly to see which students had ventured down to the kitchens so late that night. Standing on the very tips of his toes, he strained to rise over a few of his fellow house-elves crowding round the entrance, his large, bright eyes watching as a tall teenager clambered up through the usually hidden hole. The first thing he noticed was a vivid crown of bright red hair, and he instantly recognised the boy as a Weasley. Weasley's were friends with Harry Potter, he knew, and he proceeded to leap up and down in order to catch a glimpse of two more people following the first into the kitchens.  
"Bring us the butterbeer!" the Weasley exclaimed, raising his head to reveal a grinning, heavily freckled face; the face belonging to Ron Weasley, Harry Potter's best friend. He looked positively elated as he beamed at all of the house elves gazing up at him as he towered above them like a skyscraper, before a few of them scampered off to attend to his blatant wishes. The other two students had moved into view, and Dobby instantly recognized them as Hermione Granger and Harry himself, smiling almost as widely as his mate. The delighted house elf pushed as politely as possible in front of the others and beamed up at the wizard, who regarded him with a pleasant expression.  
"Dobby!" he said excitedly, his warm, glinting green eyes looking down upon him gleefully. "Guess what?"  
"It's my birthday!" Ron interrupted loudly, his tone overjoyed. "I'm seventeen! _Finally!_"  
Harry rolled his eyes, the corners of his mouth twitching.  
"You spoilt the surprise a bit there, Ron," he replied, but his friend appeared not to care.  
"I'm seventeen! For so long I've waited, and now it's here! HA! I'm _seventeen!_" he shouted, dancing and spinning around the room as he boasted.  
"Ron, you do know that Harry still has four months to wait, don't you?" Hermione asked, watching him skeptically.  
"Obviously!" he answered, jigging around the startled house elves with his arms waving wildly in the air. "You think I don't know my best friends birthday?!"  
Hermione rolled her eyes – clearly he didn't quite catch on to the underlying message. Harry grinned and shook his head, turning back to Dobby, who was watching Ron with a toothy smile.  
"Have you got any butterbeer? Or cake or something?" he inquired hopefully. "There's sort of a celebration going on in the tower see..."  
"Of course Harry Potter!" Dobby answered eagerly, bounding away to a cupboard that some other elves were milling around. He saw a large number of bottles hastily being retrieved from within it, and stepped forward to help the small creatures carry them over to the door. Taking two in each hand, he passed them over to Hermione and picked up some more, glad that there were enough to go round the whole Gryffindor Tower. Ron bounded towards them like an overexcited terrier, eager to take a few bottles himself. Harry handed them to him without protest before looking down at something tugging on his robes.  
"Sir, Dobby has asked his friends to bake a cake for young Mr. Weasley," Dobby declared, pointing a bony finger at a group of elves crowding what seemed to be some sort of refrigerator.  
"Thanks Dobby!" Harry exclaimed as a large, circular chocolate cake was carried over, wobbling slightly as the house elves walked briskly towards him. Ron's eyes widened as he saw it, and for a moment he even stopped jigging around to get a good view.  
"Is that for me?" he asked, his shining blue eyes focused on the delicious looking dessert. Dobby nodded enthusiastically, withdrawing from behind him a can of spray-on icing. He handed it to Harry, who took it, a little puzzled.  
"You have to squeeze it," Dobby explained, "onto the cake. To write something!"  
"Oh," Harry replied, and held the can aloft over the pudding, squeezing out some white icing words onto it.  
_Happy Birthday Ron _  
_Weasley Is Our King_  
Hermione peered over his shoulder, letting out a small chuckle.  
"Shall we get back up to the tower then, boys? Everyone will be getting quite restless now, I think..."  
Harry nodded, and carefully picked up the cake. Ron rushed to the entrance and leapt through it, yelling,  
"Come on! Hurry! Let's go!"  
Hermione sighed and followed suit, Harry close behind. Before he stepped through the portrait, however, he turned back to Dobby.  
"When's your birthday, then?"  
Dobby showed his crooked teeth again.  
"June the twenty-eighth!" he exclaimed brightly. "Why?"  
"No reason," Harry answered, shrugging. "See you later, Dobby!" The pair waved at each other before Harry left, and the house elf smiled as he imagined Harry Potter's friend, Mr. Weasley, stuffing his mouth with cake and jumping around in his common room. What a great party that would be.

_June 28th_

Dobby was so used to students sneaking down to the kitchens during the night that he didn't even look up when the portrait swung open and a chattering of voices could be heard as people began to scramble through it. Concentrating on the assortment of ingredients he was mixing in a large bowl, he was surprised when his own name was mentioned.  
"Dobby! He's there," Ron exclaimed, pointing out the elf to his friends. One of them broke apart from the group and approached him, grinning broadly.  
"Hey Dobby. I'm Seamus," he said, offering his free hand (In the other he was clutching a small parcel). Dobby took it in his own, much smaller one hesitantly, very confused as to what was going on. "Happy birthday."  
Ron followed, nodding warmly at the elf and then turning around as if to check if someone was there. There was movement, and on cue, Harry stepped forward, clasping a clumsily wrapped package (the crimson paper was peeling off at unbound edges, and the parts that had been stuck together had been done so with an unprofessionally excessive use of spello-tape). Dobby's eyes lit up as he saw Mr. Potter grinning cheesily at him and offering forward the present, which he took gratefully.  
"Happy birthday Dobby," Harry said, smiling as more students appeared through the doorway. The house-elf stared at the gift for a few moments, taking in the bright colours and pictures of ribbon-wrapped boxes, before carefully pulling at the spello-tape. The layer of paper fell away to reveal a vivid red woolen hat with a large fluffy bobble attached to the top. Dobby almost squealed with delight and hastily dropped the discarded packaging so that he could pull the hat down over his balding scalp. It fitted comfortably, his large ears snuggling up to the cosy material but allowing them room to breathe.  
"We thought we'd treat you to a celebration, you know, 'cause it's a special occasion," Harry continued, looking proudly at the elf as he sported his new item of clothing. "And we know you like clothes so..."  
Dobby was nodding so enthusiastically, Harry was a little fearful that his disproportionately large head my just snap off from the vigorous movement. Luckily it didn't, and Harry moved out of the way so that the other members of the Gryffindor tower that he had persuaded into coming down could offer their presents. Fred and George handed the elf a sock each, each one brightly coloured and swarming with animated kitchen utensils. Seamus's parcel turned out to be a t-shirt with a large Irish clover emblazoned on the front (Dobby thanked him profusely, even though he had no idea what the symbol meant), and Ron gave him a Chudley Cannons baseball cap that he placed jubilantly on top of the hat he was already wearing. Hermione wrapped a hand-knitted scarf proudly around his small neck which he ran through his fingers in awe when she told him she'd made it herself.  
Once all the presents had been unwrapped and were now being worn by Dobby, the elf's skin was almost completely covered, hidden except for his gleeful shining eyes and pointy nose that stuck out in front of the sea of wild, clashing colours that were enfolding him. The students laughed at him – someone even poked his nose, but jumped into the fray of their friends before Dobby could seek out who it was. There were many variations of "bit cold, Dobby?" but the elf chuckled at each one, his eyes crinkled and shining with joy.  
"We got you something else too," Harry said once his friends had settled down a bit and returned to a sensible volume of chat. Dobby looked up at him curiously, thinking that surely he would not be able to squeeze into yet another garment of clothing. Hermione appeared behind the boy, her wand aloft as she levitated a large plate with something dark brown resting on top of it. Smiling warmly, she lowered the dish down to Dobby's eye level so that he could see the cake, carefully constructed just for him. He gaped, his eyes shifting from the dessert, to Hermione and then to Harry and the people craning their necks over his shoulder behind him. "You're welcome," Harry grinned, guessing what the elf wanted to say next. Dobby looked down at the cake again, seeing words written slightly messily in some white icing; just as it had been at Ron Weasley's birthday all those months ago.  
_Happy Birthday Dobby_  
_The Free Elf_  
Dobby couldn't control his steadily widening mouth, showing off his crooked teeth as he continued to stare at the words.  
"Of course we understand if you don't want to eat it," Ron piped up from somewhere nearby. 'Mione made it and her cooking could be fatal-" He broke off as Hermione aimed a smack at his arm. "Oi! I was only joking," he said, winking at Dobby. Hermione couldn't help the corners of her mouth twitch. Dobby laughed too, and pulled down one of his scarves so that he could eat. None of the Gryffindors had thought to bring a spoon, so he was forced to tear a chunk out of it with his hand and put it straight into his mouth. Ron's warning had been false; Hermione's cake was delicious, the chocolate melting smoothly on his tongue and the light sponge crumbling delicately as his teeth chomped down on it. He gave a nod of satisfaction and a thumbs up to show his contentment – something he had learnt from the many young witches and wizards that had visited over the past months he had been working in the kitchens. Hermione beamed and glanced over at Ron, her smile transforming into a smirk. Ron rolled his eyes and sad something about politeness.  
"Mind if we have a try, Dobby?" Seamus asked hopefully, his eyes flicking down to the still very large cake.  
"Of course," Dobby replied, his mouth full of cake, and he offered forward the plate. Seamus, Dean and a few others reached down gleefully and tore away a piece each, chocolate sponge crumbs raining down and drenching the plate and surrounding floor as they did so. Lavender was ducking below Harry's arm as he took his own share, causing her to be showered by the residue of his portion, the dark specks lodging themselves in her blondish brown hair like an odd sort of dandruff.  
"Harry!" she exclaimed furiously, flipping her hair over her head and shaking it with her hands to try and extricate the fragments of pudding. "You'll pay for that," she said with mock venom as Harry laughed. Picking up her dessert, she brought her arm back, ready to throw. Harry made to duck, but it was too late; she flung it at him, hitting him on the nose and exploding chocolate flakes all over his face.  
"Piece of cake," she smirked slyly.  
The boy tried to retaliate by leaping over to the plate of pudding, but Hermione got there first, shredding a slice off and hurling it at him. This time Harry's reflexes did not fail him, and the cake hit Seamus instead, causing him to roar with rage and try to tackle Hermione head on. She was quick on her feet, however, and sprang behind Dean, who Seamus settled for instead, picking him up with voiced effort and slinging him over his shoulder, causing them both to collapse on the floor. The rest of their friends took that as an opportunity to bombard them with cake, which Dobby joined in with gleefully, throwing the biggest chunks and laughing the hardest.  
He had finally celebrated his birthday with the good wizards and witches at last.  
It seemed a bit ironic that his first birthday party was his last.


End file.
